


The Red Hart

by Technicolour (Lirriel)



Category: ASTRO (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dragon Age, Canon Divergent, Canon-Typical Racism, Canon-Typical Violence, Canon-Typical classism, M/M, Slow Burn, literally the SLOWEST BURN
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-27
Updated: 2019-06-28
Packaged: 2019-12-18 16:52:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 59,214
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18253955
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lirriel/pseuds/Technicolour
Summary: Forced to flee from an encroaching invasion that threatens to swallow his country whole, Moon Bin thinks he has found sanctuary in Kirkwall. However, a rash of disappearances leads him face-to-face with the cold and enigmatic Knight Enchanter Cha Eunwoo. As the city is bathed in blood, the two must work together to find the killer – before it’s too late.





	1. Chapter I

 

 

“On the Red Hart,

Honored to see one up close without meeting it points-first. The pride of the stable. Of any stable. Even the Dalish I've had occasion to ask have said it's rare to glimpse them at a distance. The few who have mastered one - and it truly is very few - say there is no animal more sure of foot, more attuned to its rider, more inspirational to simply gaze upon. You want to match the majesty of this creature? Grow some bloody wings.”

\-- Master Dennet, _A Horsemaster’s Notes on Mounts_

 

* * *

 

That night in Ostagar would forever be embedded in Moon Bin’s mind. Later, even in the arms of a lover. Later, even in the depths of a drink. The screams and shouts, the acrid scent of burnt flesh, the overpowering smell of spilt blood – and the flames, fanning higher and higher, reaching red fingers skyward to caress a cold moon that watched over the proceedings as a passive audience.

Shouts and screams continued to pound the air, a cacophony of agony that drew his grip ever tighter on the hilt of his greatsword until his fingers were white and bloodless. The remnants of his scouting party huddled around their captain, an old man that looked haggard and death-like beneath the pale light that filtered through from above. Among the five that still lived, Bin was by far the freshest – a kindness afforded due to his youth, barely ventured into adulthood and facing down horrors even a man twice his age might blanch at.

The leader met each of their gazes in turn. When the man’s focus finally came to him, Bin set his jaw, squared himself tall, and wished he had not such a feather-light voice, that his features were not so boyish, that he had seen some scrap against bandits so when facing true battle he might not quake.

But shiver he did, the tremors running minutely across his skin, a combination of adrenaline and stark terror – because they had all seen the state of Ostagar, had seen the king’s most trusted aide turn and flee the battle. And the tower had been lit.

_The tower had been lit_ , and Bin could imagine what it must have been like for the king of Ferelden in his final moments as he awaited a heroic charge that never came. And with him had died the Grey Wardens: the only ones capable of defeating an Archdemon, the great general that led its blighted masses against life itself.

“This battle is lost,” the old captain said, and Bin focused himself. He hefted the greatsword, felt its reassuring weight pull against his hands in protest. “Scatter now, and hope the bastards are more interested in desecrating our dead.”

A ripple of displeased murmuring spread across the men at the captain’s blunt words. But none spoke clearly, and the surge of noise fell back almost as quickly as it had surfaced. Then, through no apparent signal, the men took their leave. One by one they stalked out into the darkness, disappearing into shadows, beneath the cover of trees, until it was only Bin and the old captain.

He regarded Bin with a raised eyebrow, peppered black and silver.

“Ser,” Bin said, not quite knowing what to say, but knowing he must speak. His conscience would not allow otherwise. “Shouldn’t we go together? Lothering is closest, I can—.”

The old man stopped him with a look. Bin knew what lay below the moonlight. Their most recent skirmish had seen the captain faced with two adversaries, and though he’d cut down both, he had not escaped unscathed. Even now, Bin knew, there was a great welling of blood that sprang from his thigh. They had lost their medic a few fights past, but even he knew that the captain bled lifeblood. It spurted too thick, its scent too rich, to be anything but.

But still. He had to try.

“You’ve a family there?” the captain asked at last.

“Yes, ser,” Bin answered cautiously.

“Then go to them,” the man said. “Don’t let me slow you down.”

“But – ser, I—.”

“Damnit, boy!” The captain’s sudden curse caught him unaware, sent him a step backward, as if he had been physically rebuked. For a moment he was able to see the sort of man the captain had been but a decade before: broad-shouldered, deep-voiced, a mountainous man capable of weathering all blows. The captain fixed him with hawk eyes, blazing ice blue. “Think of your family! Where will the darkspawn go once they’ve finished here, eh? Lothering, boy, _Lothering_! The town will be swallowed. Get home, get them out. That’s the only victory we can have now that the king’s dead. _Save them_.”

“And you, ser?”

He knew the answer, of course. The captain would never make it. Ostagar was almost entirely cut off from civilization, surrounded by the unforgiving Korcari Wilds. The march southward had been filled with lame ponies, broken axles, and mosquito-bitten, tired men. Even if the captain didn’t bleed out on the way through such treacherous swampland, infection would set in, and blood poisoning would take him instead.

_Let me die with dignity_ , the captain’s eyes said. Aloud: “I’ll see if I can hold up their foremost forces.”

It took everything Bin had not to argue further. Instead, aware of the moonlight he was wasting, he dipped into a deep bow. Then he was once more readjusting his grip upon his sword, knowing it was all that would keep him from becoming a wild beast’s meal. Satisfied that it would not slip from his grip, he turned from his captain and headed northward, toward home.

Though the Imperial Highway was considered by many to be the shortest route, Bin deftly avoided it. He knew the bulk of the darkspawn army would travel along it, leaving small troops to run alongside and gather necessary supplies. It was what King Cailan’s army had done on its own journey southward, and it was the only way to properly move such a large and formidable group. But Bin was a single man, traveling without mount, without company, and without much armor beyond pieces of split leather.

He could cut straight through the Korcari Wilds and in doing so hopefully escape with his family before the first of the darkspawn fell upon Lothering.

But a trek taken in the mind is far different from that same path traveled afoot. Bin only ever stopped to relieve himself or to doze. After two run-ins with the same bear, snuffling noisily about the tree he had just scrambled up, he bit into his bottom lip and went about the disgusting task of slathering bog mud across his body. He knew that to bathe was to waste precious moments and be open to attack, but the stench of man was a scent unknown in the Wilds, and he had to cover it.

He soon found that it also served as suitable camouflage as once he awoke to the sound of shuffling. Awake, he could only watch with his breath strangled, as a pair of genlocks passed by. The scent and color of the mud he had swept across his body served to camouflage him, and he was able to watch them, heartbeat thrumming in his chest, for he knew that a fight would only end in disaster.

What he had learned of the darkspawn was only that they were corrupted beings, stricken by the Maker himself, and as he watched the once-dwarves pass by, he could believe it. Before, in the rush of battle, he had never truly had time to gaze upon their monstrous forms. Now, but a few steps away from where they trod, he could see fully the depths of their sin: the black ichor that leaked from their noses, the veiny skin that ran ruinous and sickly, the way their very limbs contorted and bulged, as if shaped by a child.

_Scouts_ , he thought. And when they had been swallowed by the forest, their steps and voices lost to the night, only then did he rise. Never mind that his weary body had taken but a few hours’ rest. Bin needed to move faster if he was to save his family.

The further north he journeyed, the firmer the ground became. By noon of his second day of traveling, munching busily at a handful of grubs he’d plucked from beneath a soft-rotted log, he had begun to recognize the signs of an environment that more properly matched the surroundings of Lothering. He was not an avid hunter, but in times of scarcity he had been encouraged to take up a bow or else set out traps.

He was once more in man-governed woods, and so he allowed his pace to quicken as the sun began to sink once more. Exhaustion dogged at his heels like an expectant hound, and a few times he nearly stumbled and fell. But he always caught himself, the tip of his sword biting deep into the earth as it served as an improvised walking stick. He knew, of course, that to allow such ill use would only dull the blade. But he also knew himself to be no longer a proud soldier, marching beneath the king’s banner, alongside a thousand others. Now he was the remnant of a great tragedy. Heroics held no place here.

He came upon his mother’s house as the third day began. Theirs was a small estate, a single-bedroom cottage surrounded by a few acres of hardened earth from which they might till the bulk of their wealth. Hens scattered freely about the front of his home, and his mother stepped delicately among them, sussing out their hiding spots as she had always done, plucking up eggs before a broody could do much beyond hiss.

Bin nearly wept to see her.

He attempted to call out to her, only to discover his voice had dropped away entirely with disuse and scant water to wet his tongue. Instead, all he could manage was a weak, whistling sound, as if he were already a ghost. He tried again, managed a barely-there, fluttering, “Mother!”

And yet this time luck ran with him. Perhaps it was the sudden shift of the wind, drawing his unwashed, mud-rank stench toward her. But her head suddenly shot up, the fine wrinkles about her eyes deepening before she drew them wide.

“Bin,” she answered, bewildered and shocked and so many other words. He swayed upon his feet, and she rushed toward him, a sudden jolt of movement that sent hens fluttering in dismay. She caught him before he collapsed completely, doing her best to sweep his hair away from his forehead even as the pair sank together toward the ground – because his mother was light, and he was tall and heavy and all strength had left his muscles with the sight of her whole and hale.

“Bin, love, what happened?”

Maker bless his mother, that she did not wrinkle her nose, as he had so expected she would when faced with his overwhelming stink. He knew he must smell. He had grown used to it even as it built, but Bin had also inherited her fine sense of smell. That she was not reeling or otherwise rushing away made him love her all the more in that moment. Made him more determined to see her toward safety.

“We have to leave,” he told her. Or, at least, he attempted to. Again his voice deserted him, and she frowned back at him, incomprehension evident in the purse of her lips.

“Inside first,” she said. Then she was untangling herself from him, rising back onto her feet. Once properly stood, she extended a hand down toward him, and he took it carefully. His own ascension was a much slower affair, conducted with a hesitancy borne of the knowledge that she was a slight woman and his a great bulk to lug up. He managed to take most of his weight upon himself, drawing upon some hidden reserve of strength. But it was a greater effort to walk, and in this he found himself reliant upon her. Their journey into the house was a slow procession, measured in seconds he knew they didn’t have.

But Bin knew he was taxed beyond his limits, and when at last she brought him before his pallet, he settled down with a great sound of relief. Compared to the hard ground, even a feather-thin bed was a source of great comfort, and it took still further from his will to keep awake. He persisted, knowing his mother’s worried eyes rested on him.

Once he was properly settled, she disappeared for but a moment, the quick slap of her feet from outside telling him she was off to draw water from the well. Cool and fresh and entirely unlike the stagnant, lukewarm water she’d drawn earlier for the chickens, he surmised. When at last she returned, it was to offer him some of the liquid from within a clay-fired cup: one of a pair they had, guaranteed to keep his water cool while he worked through the tale he had to spin.  

He drank deep of the draught, only stopping when his mother placed a warning hand upon his back. He took his lips from the cup and let her set it aside. Too much and his stomach would tie up, he knew. He knew that, but a man faced with three days of scarce water had little reason left to him.

“Speak, son,” his mother said, her hand returning to his back, this time to rub at the tensed muscles beneath his clothes, soothing circles that had been his constant companions as a child when he suffered recurrent nightmares. They calmed him, undid the knot that had sat in his chest since he had abandoned his old captain. And so he spun for his mother the tale of what had occurred in his time at Ostagar.

He spoke of the hundreds of men, of the elves and dwarves he’d seen mingled amongst the humans. Of the king, resplendent in golden armor and his dour silver-marked knight. And of the Grey Warden Duncan and the handful of new recruits he had brought with him. These were glorious memories, and Bin’s disposition brightened somewhat in their retelling.

But then it came to their clash against the full brunt of the darkspawn’s army: “We were assigned deep in darkspawn territory. It was the king’s hope that when the darkspawn broke, we might be there to clean up any remnants, so that none would escape. But instead all we found were holes – holes and abandoned camps. There were _so many_ , Mother. We hurried back to warn the king, but there were still scouts lingering. They kept us busy. If they hadn’t…

“We returned in time to see the king’s forces clash with the darkspawn. One of the men noticed how _few_ the king’s army seemed. But the captain saw what the darkspawn could not and what we had failed to see.  Teyrn Loghain’s troops stood upon a nearby hill, awaiting a signal. The captain said the king and his general had planned it thus: that the king would lead forth a vanguard and with the darkspawn’s might focused on him, the teyrn might smash into the flank, thus crushing the foe between their forces. The signal was meant to be a bonfire lit atop one of the towers.

“But the bonfire was lit, and we watched it flame in the darkness. And the Teryn never charged. And then we couldn’t see the king at all.”

Bin sat quietly for a moment. Again, he could remember the desperate screams of men. Again, he could remember the fingers of flame that grasped at the moon. And again, he could remember the golden armor of the king: suddenly snuffed out, and with it, all the hope of the realm.

He raised his head to meet his mother’s eyes. “We have to leave, mother. The captain told us to run, and we have to. We can’t fight those things. They’ll march northward, and we’ll be their first stop.”

“But first you rest,” his mother said, so simply and plainly, that for a moment he could only gape at her.

“Mother, they’re right behind me!”

“And you’re almost dead on your feet, Bin,” she countered.

“There’s no _time_ ,” he argued back. Bin struggled now to rise, thinking that he might reason with her better when he was stood. That perhaps she thought him suddenly an invalid, because he had thought to rest for but a moment. But then the world spun and he could only scramble at the floor, nails clawing uselessly at his threadbare blanket until he finally found stability, once more sat upon his pallet.

His mother watched him placidly. “Five hours,” she said at last. “Five hours, and you will spend them sleeping.” Before he could protest again, she added, “I’ll pack and sell what we have and warn our neighbors. You shall sleep and then before we leave you shall eat.”

“Yes, Mother,” Bin relented with a heavy sigh. She offered him a cheerful wink then headed back out the door.

He was settling back down to hopefully sleep for the few hours he had been afforded when she returned, slowly walking toward him with her legs spread apart as she tugged in a heavily-filled bucket of water. A washcloth clung to the rim, already wet.

“And wash,” she told him. “Even if we must flee for our very lives, I cannot in good conscience spend a day at your side while you reek.”

Bin managed a short bark of laughter.

With the bucket set down beside him, she once more reached to pat him, this time a short tap upon his head. It was a quick gesture of comfort, a reminder that he might rely on her. Then she was away once more. For a few heartbeats Bin listened, the noisy clucks of the chickens alerting him to the fact that his mother was beginning to put her plan into action. Suitably ascertained that she would not bother him further until it was time to leave, he set about cleaning himself as best he could.

He was particularly meticulous about his pits and groin, both to combat the stench that wafted from him and to chase away any bacteria that might seek to culture in warm, dark places. The rest of him he scrubbed as best he could, and when he felt he had cleaned properly, he promptly ducked his head into the bucket, dragging it out almost immediately and shaking it much as a dog might. There was no time to use the crumbling soap his mother kept for such occasions, and neither could he be bothered to fetch the fine-tomb comb he had once won in a game of chance. Instead, he combed his fingers through his wet hair, sweeping back his bangs, and then set about drying himself with the towel his mother had also apparently provided.

Finished, he once more affixed his loincloth. Then, overcome by a wave of weariness, he settled upon his pallet and closed his eyes. Sleep found him swiftly, and it was the first time he fully submerged in slumber since the king’s death.

But his dreams were not peaceful. He moved as if through swampland, an eerie green light ever floating ahead of him. The moon above hung a sickly yellow, the same pallor he’d seen overtake a man’s skin when their flesh grew diseased. And then, when he might catch that flickering, frolicking light – a hand, upon his wrist, clawed and skeletal and driven up from beneath the decaying peat moss.

He moved to throw it off – and was suddenly awake once more, his mother’s face twisted in pain beside his. And he found that it was her hand upon his wrist, his skin clammy and sweat-soaked. Further, he saw, that he had grabbed her arm in turn, and his grip was white-knuckled. He released her with a gasp, and she in turn whimpered, snatching her hand away as if she had been burned.

“Mom, mother,” Bin sputtered uselessly. Already he could see where a redness had risen upon her skin, knew that a bruise would replace it in time, and he felt wretched.

But his mother was so kind, so understanding. She shook her head, the shock and fear already fading from her eyes even as her fingers rubbed gently across her wrist. “No, Bin, I’m sorry. You were thrashing about, and I didn’t think.”

He fought down the urge to apologize in turn. It was a song and dance both were intimately familiar with, but he could tell some amount of time had passed: already the shadows in the room had deepened, darker than they had been when he had first laid down to rest. “It’s all right,” he told her instead, offering up a small smile. Then, “Is it time to go?”

“Yes,” his mother said. “While you slept one of the teyrn’s men came to the village. He said we must leave before the darkspawn fell upon us. When I left, the highway had already begun to fill with carts and donkeys and some fleeing on foot.” Her mouth quirked into a smile of her own. “Luckily I was able to procure a wagon for us before the rush began.”

“A wagon?” Bin had not considered how they might leave, only that they must. But what could his mother hope to bring, that she was willing to pay for a wagon? “It wasn’t expensive?”

“No,” his mother answered idly. Then, her gaze suddenly refocusing, as if she had remembered the task ahead of them, she added, “But get up, get dressed. We’ll speak along the way.”

“Yes!”

"Oh, and a meal, Bin. Anything we have left, as much as you want."

Quickly Bin stood, hurrying over to the chest that contained most of his clothes. He found it almost entirely emptied, save for a few old tunics that had worn open holes and a pair of hose that he’d outgrown with his final growth spurt.

His mother, catching his confused glance in her direction, said, “I packed what clothes you had. Wear those for now, while we travel.”

He nodded obediently. Though he dressed swiftly and efficiently, his mother still had enough time to explain her reasoning for the cart: “A pair of horses were too expensive, but if we must move swiftly, a cart will carry us further. And unlike some of the others, we won’t burden our pony with unnecessary materials.”

Bin could see the reasoning. With a cart they would not move as swiftly as the pair of them riding, but it was still faster than walking.

“We’ll head east,” his mother continued. “Through the Brecilian Passage, into Gwaren. I’ve enough coin that we might book passage aboard a ship.”

Had he not been faced with the horrors of Ostagar, Bin might have protested her desire to fully abandon their homeland. But that terrible night was still a reality behind the dark of his eyelids, and so he only muttered meek assent. Had he thought to complain, he might well have asked she consider the risks the Brecilian Forest posed – and further, that the darkspawn might well follow them and fall upon the people in Gwaren. But he had slept for all of a handful of hours and each had been suffered through; though some amount of strength had returned to his body, the same could not be said for his mind.

So, with a chest shared between the two, filled with clothes and valuables and family treasures, the pair set off upon their cart, turning away from the main migration of Lothering’s population and instead heading eastward.

“We’re going to the Free Marches,” his mother told him as they traveled, the pony plodding along dutifully before the wagon. Bin recognized it as a neighbor’s former pet, stout and even-tempered, once playmate to bouncing children and companion to a sweet-natured grandmother. He thought it might have been called Sugar, but it was trained well enough that he could neither confirm nor deny; it might well have answered to “Lout” as easily as it took to “Sugar”. For his part, Bin was content to nibble upon what bread had been left within their cabinets. It was not so filling as a stew, but he had found it difficult to desire food over the past few days and was content. 

The path they followed took them east and then swept south, meandering along the border where the great Brecilian Forest butted up against the Korcari Wilds. It was not a trail he knew well, though supposedly his father had taken the same route in his journey to Lothering.

Though the path was obviously important, made up of hardpacked dirt and sometimes cut stone, with lead-offs where one might set camp for the night, traveling beneath the dense shade of trees sent a shiver down Bin’s spine. It was as if the forest itself watched them, and though his mother was content to drive Sugar forward, he found himself drawing his sword free of its wrappings.

Even in the dim light afforded by the thick foliage overhead, his greatsword caught some of the light, reflecting it back with a sparkling brilliance that offered Bin comfort. He lifted it high, inspecting it, turning the blade until he had ascertained it still retained some sense of sharpness. It would bite and bite wickedly, and he knew he held a great deal of power, a lucky product of years spent toiling in the family’s unkind fields. And, he knew, that if it were his mother in trouble, any fear of fighting would wash away in the bloodlust that came over him – because his captain had told him it was far easier to defend a loved one’s physical form than it was to fight in defense of an image he held in his mind.

You did not think when there was a body in harm’s way; you simply acted.

However, as the day wore on, Bin found whatever danger he had sensed had crept away. Perhaps it had been a figment of his imagination, or mayhap it had sought easier prey. Regardless, the pair arrived at the port of Gwaren in good time, with the moon just beginning to crest high and the sun sinking down to rest for the night.

To see the gates, watched over by a pair of guards in the teyrn’s colors, sent a veritable rush of relief threading through Bin’s veins. As the sky had grown bloody with approaching nightfall, he had begun to fear that their party’s previous trackers might arise once more and find new courage beneath the moonlight. But, so close to the teyrn’s lands, with his many-numbered army milling about, Bin knew only a fool would attack.

_Or darkspawn_ , warned the small voice of his pessimism. But, no, first it would be Lothering. They would fall upon it like a blighted wave, wipe it from the very map, and only when it had been completely overrun would they seek new prey.

They had time. He could only pray to the Maker above that his Favored Daughter had led her most innocent of lambs from the oncoming slaughter.

Within Gwaren, it was again a matter of time spent they could ill afford. He stood anxiously beside his mother as she worked through her business with all the skill of a woman used to bartering over the most inconsequential of items. Sugar was taken and the cart too, and in their place his mother was counted out a handful of silver coins. Enough, she had said, to afford them both swift passage to Kirkwall.

The captain they sought out next agreed. “Tomorrow,” he told them, voice muffled beneath the bushiness of his mustache. Still the silent bodyguard to his mother’s bustling merchant, Bin could only idly wonder why the man’s facial hair grew in so richly, so thickly. But a few scants years before when his own had first begun to come in, he had quickly realized that his greatest gift with the fairer sex might well be a sharpened razor. He could remember one tavern lass telling him he had looked a fool; another, much less kindly, had suggested he had been as badly sheared as his poor sheep.

Never mind, he reflected, that his family had not possessed any sheep. Both women had certainly guaranteed he would nevermore seek out companionship. Or at least not of a sort that went beyond a few bottles and a dark night and a tortuous morning.

But then his mother was nudging him, a soft “Bin” accompanying her push, and he trailed placidly after her as next they headed toward an inn. The man in charge of the establishment tossed them a single look of barely-disguised horror as they crowded into his already-bustling business. Men and women of all shapes and sizes were already camped out across the ground floor. Above, along the length of the bannister that fenced in the above floor’s walkway, Bin could make out still more feet and legs and bodies belonging to others seeking refuge for the night.

“The barn is fine,” his mother said quickly, before the man could even utter a word. Swiftly she dropped the last of their silvers upon the table. It would be nothing but coppers now: coppers for stale pieces of bread and watered-down wine and nothing left over for when they did arrive in the Free Marches.

“Mother,” Bin murmured, leaning toward her so the man would not hear.

Across the countertop, the owner raised the silver coin to his eye, inspecting it closely. Then, with all the delicacy an arless might employ toward a particularly tender piece of duck, he set it between his teeth and bit down lightly. It was but a moment, but the peculiarity must have shown on Bin and his mother, for the man offered a half-hearted smile as he deposited it into a pocket. “Forgeries, mistress,” he said.

Casting his gaze about, the man raised his hand and his voice in tandem, flagging down a girl by the name of, “Verena, here now!”

A mousy-faced girl, already looking suitably harassed, appeared at his call, paying Bin’s mother but a moment’s notice. Her gaze lingered longer on him, curious, but when the owner suddenly snatched hold of her by an earlobe, she shrieked like a caught hare.

Bin did his best to attend a look of nonchalance, as if such rough-handling of servants was a common occurrence. But it had not been so in Lothering, and he had certainly seen no such mean-spiritedness among Cailan’s men. The best he could do was grind at his teeth, tugging his re-wrapped sword nearer. The owner took no notice of his discomfort, only hissing a set of words in the girl’s ear before he set her free. She stumbled a few steps, recaptured her balance, and dipped into a swift, half-hearted bow.

“If Mistress and Master would follow me,” she said, voice flat. She moved toward the entrance of the inn, deftly avoiding the men and women that crowded around her. Bin set after her with a helpless glance toward his mother, though he soon slackened his pace so that his mother might walk between them and be afforded some measure of protection from the heaving horde that rocked the building.

As they stepped outside, Bin heard the owner’s voice, raised once more, and decided he greatly disliked the man. If Gwaren did fall to the darkspawn, he would certainly not mourn _that_ man. Perhaps it was an unkind thought, and perhaps the Maker might look poorly upon him, but in that moment he felt oddly out-of-place, and the sudden dip from rowdy revelry to quiet business did nothing for his nerves.

_Too quiet_ , some part of him argued, and he had to work to keep after his mother and the serving girl, forcing each step as he had upon his trek toward Lothering. He could only wonder what had so seized him, and so concerned was he with himself that Bin missed the quiet conversation his mother held with their guide. Likewise, he missed when the girl brought them blankets and offered him a pitying smile.

He only truly returned to the present when the serving girl had left, and his mother again patted him. Her hand was small against the breadth of his back but insistent on drawing him free of his stupor. “Only a night and then we’re away,” she told him softly, “Just hold out for a few more hours, Bin.”

Together the pair bedded down in an unused stall. The blankets they had were thin, but Bin laid one beneath them as a barrier against the hay. The other, he wrapped carefully around himself and his mother; she settled against the crook of his arm, cuddling up close. It reminded him of when he had been but a boy and the winters had been cold and wet. Thankfully the winter snows were a way off yet, and so the only discomfort to be found was in the quality of their makeshift bed.

Of course, Bin realized with a small smile, where you lay your head mattered little when you were exhausted. And his mother truly was, for almost as soon as he had stopped his fidgeting did she succumb to slumber, her breaths evening out into the telltale rhythm of sleep.

Despite his own fatigue, Bin kept a dutiful watch, eyes following each trace of movement, ears pricked for any sound. Whether it was the owner or another patron, they were all strapped for coin and all trying to escape the oncoming blight. Murdering a pair of travelers who slept amongst the horses might produce a handful of wealth. But still the night wore on, and Bin took to dozing, allowing himself but a half-hour of sleep here and then there. He never dropped too deeply below the surface of his mind, and so what rest he gathered was undisturbed: no nightmares, no screams. Just blackness and then the sudden return to reality, as his soldier’s training took over and wrenched him awake to watch once more.

The next morning found him much the same as the night had: frazzled and distracted, sometimes aware of what his mother said but too often focused on something else. He had heard wolves during the hours just before dawn, but their calls had been high and fluting and the hairs along his arms had risen and the horses had shifted uneasily down the row. So, despite the fact this journey would be his longest yet, he was glad to board the boat.

Or at least, he was content until he saw the extent of their accommodations: below deck, with another two dozen wretched souls all crammed together with naught but the sunlight filtered through a latticed hatch. This was all that his mother’s coin had bought. This was all that Sugar and the cart had amounted to, and they themselves had been the result of what wealth his mother could gather through selling off everything of value upon their small farm in Lothering.

The sight of it was suddenly suffocating, and he turned as is to scramble back up the ladder he had climbed down. But already others were following, and his mother’s insistent hand guided him away from the entrance, into a corner of the room that was not so heavily crowded.

“Bin,” she whispered. “Stay with me, son.”

He breathed hard, his nostrils flaring. In and out, as his mother set to drawing circles upon his arm and then his back as the tension slipped from his shoulders. At last he dropped his head, feeling tired again, and muttered, “Sorry.”

The smile she offered him was brittle. Absently he noticed the dark smudges that had become permanent fixtures beneath her eyes.

“At least we won’t want for company,” he offered softly, and his shy smile was met with her own: weak, but there. That was all he wanted.

“No,” his mother said. “We certainly won’t.”

It took them nearly two weeks to reach Kirkwall.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello welcome to this thing that's been knocking around my head for a bit. i'm a relative newcomer to the fandom after being slowly pulled into the fold by a friend of mine (you know who you are LMAO). please treat me kindly m(_ _)m
> 
> for those who know dragon age, this takes place sometime during da2 but it is definitely not going to play out as you know it, and i've twisted the timeline to suit my needs for the purpose of this story. sorry :^) 
> 
> for those interested but confused on a few terms: the blight, sometimes called taint, is a horrible corruption of the body, said to have originally been cast as a punishment from the maker (god) upon those who tried to enter the golden city (heaven). the golden city turned black and those that had attempted to reach the heavens came back as twisted monstrosities. those that ingest darkspawn blood either die or themselves mutate and there are some darkspawn specifically used for breeding others. they're all led as a giant hive-mind by a monster called the archdemon; archdemons are themselves said to be corrupted old gods and only grey wardens know the key to defeating them and ending blights. 
> 
> (this is all relatively unimportant to this story tbh, as we're heading to Kirkwall which is faaaar away from the blight happenings. but in case you were curious, here you go!)


	2. Chapter II

 

 

 

From the port of Gwaren, the ship traveled northward, hugging the Ferelden coast until it came upon the Waking Sea. The vessel they had chartered was a three-masted carrack, but the wind worked against them, and so what might have taken but a week stretched out another six days.

It was not an easy journey. Though the coastline provided some measure of protection from the rough seas, it could do nothing for Bin’s mother. He found his footing easily enough, but her stomach became openly rebellious. It was not long before a bucket was procured, for they were not allowed easy access to the deck, for fear of them disrupting the sailors. So instead of the briny air, which might have settled her stomach, his mother was forced to breathe deep the scent of her own vomit. This, in turn, would set her to gagging again.

It fell to Bin to carry her buckets upstairs when they neared full, and though his eyes watered with each trip, and he felt his own stomach roll sickeningly, he did his task willingly. If he could find but an ounce of contentment in the disgusting job, it was buried in the knowledge that he was not the only one who went above with human waste.

Chamber pots were shared out among the passengers and it fell to the entire group to decide whom might ferry what. Since Bin was so preoccupied with his own mother’s sickness, and no one wished to force upon a seasick woman jobs relating to sewage, it fell to others to carry away their used pails.

Twice they came to rest in a port along the length of their journey. Each time it took a few hours for supplies to be refilled or cargo offloaded, and each time Bin would step off the ship with his mother. Together they would stretch their legs and listen for word of the darkspawn.

The monsters had destroyed Lothering, as Bin had feared they would. But what came more surprising was that apparently Grey Wardens had survived that hideous battle – and furthermore, Teyrn Loghain, now acting in place of the king through his daughter’s title of widowed queen, had put forth that they were traitors and villains and deserving of death.

The news of it had momentarily stripped Bin of his senses, and a white-hot flame had curdled in his belly even as the gossiper wondered aloud how they might die. It had taken his mother’s hand, firm upon his back and a sharp, “ _Bin_ ,” to smother the fire that had flared up.

And he knew, of course. They could not afford a brawl, had not the coin to spare in freeing him from the guards. But to know the traitorous teyrn was lauded as a hero for rescuing his own men from an unfortunate slaughter – when Bin had _watched the king fall beneath a dozen darkspawn_ – oh, the very thought of it made him sick and furious and frightened all at once, for he was not a man of extreme emotions and yet the Battle of Ostagar drew nothing but.

He clung to the hope that things would be different in Kirkwall.

Returned to the ship, his mother eased his disquiet with what she knew of the Free Marches. They were a collection of city-states, and supposedly his father had hailed from Kirkwall. Once, beneath the Tevinter Imperium’s reign, it had been a fortress built upon the back of slaves. Now it served as the major trading hub of the Free Marches, ferreting out their goods to the surrounding nations and ushering in exotic wares found elsewhere.

“It’s second only to Starkhaven in size and influence,” his mother told him. “And Starkhaven is only so impressive because of its close connection to the Chantry.”

On the morning of their final day aboard the ship, the captain encouraged all of his haggard passengers to come onto the deck, that they might see their salvation from afar. As Bin has suspected, the brisk ocean air did his mother some good. Her unsteady stomach settled, and she was capable of standing upright without assistance.

Together, the fleeing refugees of Ferelden crowded against the railing of the ship’s starboard, cloistered in the small groups they had formed during their exhausting journey. Bin kept between his mother and the others, as they were all excited, some whooping while others jostled against each other. When one particularly boisterous man shouted and shoved against him, he weathered the blow patiently, fingers scraping at the wooden bar he clutched.

As the great cliffs that surrounded the harbor came into view, Bin felt a sudden surge of anxiety. Above him, twin statues of great size stooped against the black cliffs they had been carved from. Criss-crossing overhead ran a variety of chains, and they clanked ominously in the slight wind that wove through the channel. As their ship slowly traveled through the waterway, Bin no longer saw salvation.

“It's—,” he began, then let the word sit unfinished in the air.

His mother looked with him, her eyes roving up and down the black cliffs that rose like sentinels on either side of the ship. Behind them, back upon the Waking Sea, a small island jutted up, a spiraling tower built upon its peak.

_A lighthouse_ , Bin thought. A warning.

“Foreboding,” his mother said at last. He looked to her, and she answered with a wan smile, her hands rising to clasp at her forearms. “But your father came from here.”

Bin raised a hand to absentmindedly scratch beneath his chin and did not comment further.

The seed of oppression that had taken root in Bin’s heart only further flowered as they came upon the docks. Ships clustered around the many piers, and the scent of salt was overlaid with a sharper, more pungent smell. Leaning over the railing to watch men and women disembark from a smaller caravel, Bin took in their gaunt and dirtied faces.

They were an unwashed mass, quite literally, and many sported the haggard look of a soul rife with sickness. Suddenly, Bin’s own time upon a ship did not seem so terrible. For they had all supped well and had all been afforded time to bathe and clean themselves. But these poor creatures, supposedly other misplaced citizens of Ferelden, were as death walking.

He watched their dreary procession as they stepped slow-footed from the piers and into the stone-cut holdings. Then they were gone from sight, eaten up by shadows that ran grey, and he turned away to prepare for his own disembarkment.

He and his mother were among the last to depart. Bin stepped down the gangplank first, the chest of all their remaining possessions clutched tight to his body. The footing was somewhat slippery and twice he had to catch himself so that he might not go tumbling in the black waters beneath. His mother was more careful in her steps as she was able to see where the splash of seawater had left the wooden footway slick.

And then they were stood upon the pier, and then the rough-cut stone ground. For a moment they gathered together, each seeking comfort in the other upon this unfamiliar land. Bin watched their fellow travelers slowly travel through the stone structure that all the others had filtered through; he thought it perhaps a type of gate, a checkpoint through which guards might prevent the entrance of unscrupulous folk or unsavory items.

His mother’s gaze likewise rested upon the building, and at last she broke the silence that had overcome them since their descent. “Well,” she said, drawing in a deep breath as if it might blow her tall and strong and stout. “Shall we?” And she offered him a smile that was perhaps meant to be reassuring.

“Yes,” he answered quietly. And then, as they began to walk, joining the groups of people that slowly pushed through the checkpoint’s entrance: “What are we going to do when we get in?”

She responded in an equally hushed tone. “Lodgings first. If we are lucky, we may be able to barter an innkeep into letting us stay a night, in exchange for doing chores.”

“I don’t need any rest, mother. I can start looking for work immediately.”

“Nonsense!” And she pushed him gently, a shove that barely displaced him. “Don’t martyr yourself, son. I’ve still a few good years left in me, and I would like you to have many more.”

Bin wished he could have shared in her easy optimism. But he was a good head taller than her and so could see the refugees they walked amongst. To the city of Kirkwall, they were as minnows in a shoal: indistinguishable from one another.

“We could get a loan, then,” he suggested. “If we can’t find an inn.” Not that he liked the idea, and his displeasure expressed itself in the words that fell from his lips like stones. They had both seen the damage a debt could cause. Whether they were human merchants or the dwarven Carta, people with money too easily made slaves of those without. It was why they had never sought above their means, why Bin had hunted and farmed and taken every odd job offered. It was why his mother had gained recognition as a sort of midwife, though she held no formal training and had learned the extent of her herb knowledge through watching animals and what plants they sought when ill or aching.  

“It would be our last resort,” his mother said. And then they were through the gates proper, and Bin could think of nothing except that perhaps they should have stayed in Ferelden, darkspawn be damned.

What he had taken for a checkpoint, a way to stem the steady flow, was but a small entranceway to a greater fortress, the breadth of it nearly so great as to be itself a sort of city. The entirety of it rose up, stacking upon itself, growing greater and greater – and Bin felt so very small, was further disturbed by the many statues that marked the massive pillars that held up the upper levels. Each bronzed face bowed its head, cupped its hands together, or otherwise knelt as if it in beseeching prayer. He recognized them as slaves, heads shaved and bodies gaunt.

Toward one end of the courtyard stood a sort of market, and Bin caught sight of his ship’s captain, bartering with one of the stall owners who had set up there. But the greater spectacle, the one that had ultimately turned his very blood to ice, was the great mob that crowded about a set of stairs that led up to a pair of gates. Each gate was drawn closed, and before them, pushing back against the milling refugees, was a small number of men Bin recognized as guards. They alone carried weapons and were armored too uniformly to be anything but a unit of a greater organization. And as one of the men turned from the crowd, Bin caught sight of the emblem emblazoned upon his shield: that of a sword, surrounded by holy flames.

_Templars_.

As King Cailan had once called upon all his nobles and their many armies versus the darkspawn, so too could the Chantry call its templar order: a group of knights known for their martial prowess and ability to deny the unreality mages spun. It was they who leashed the power of magic and they who kept men from fearing a mage unchained.

Bin had seen but two other templars before, when he had lived in Lothering. They had sought an escaped apostate, a mage unbound to the Circles most called home. And when she had been taken over by a demon and sent dread creatures against Lothering, it was they who had tracked her down and slain her and returned with the twisted, mutated body of someone who dared to defy the Maker.

Bin knew he should have loved them. They had saved his family and saved his town, and they expected no payment as this was their role, bestowed upon them by the Maker himself. But he had hated how they had laughed so cruelly afterward, of the way they had spoken of her before the killing. As if a person cursed with magic was no longer a person at all.

He turned his gaze from the templars and instead looked toward the tallest tower of the fortress they stood within. He had known Kirkwall must have a Circle; it was too big not to. And now, having seen the templars milling about with an ease that spoke of lived experience, he wondered if perhaps this fortress served as both a gateway and a prison.

_The docks_ , he thought suddenly. _It’s right here. They don’t walk far. Just to here, and then they’re trapped._

“Perhaps we should have worried about how we might first enter the city,” his mother said.

Bin looked to her, setting aside his thoughts of the templars and mages. She watched the same crowd he had, her arms once more folded and tucked tight to her chest.

“We’ll find a way,” he said, the lie slipping free easily. His mother looked too small again; he could not bear to see her small. He said, “Watch this, please,” setting the chest and his sword down beside her. Then, with a quick wave and a smile, he headed toward the crowd of refugees.

He weaved through them with the same practiced ease he employed when market day came to Lothering.   A few times he had to more firmly jostle a particularly thick-headed man from his path, but too much of the crowd was fixated upon their own worries to take much notice as he pushed through. And then, with one final wiggle and a quick step, he was at the head of the pack and staring straight into a ruddy-nosed templar’s beady eyes.

“Is there a problem, ser?” he asked.  He had hoped that such an obvious show of deference might earn him but a pinch of sympathy. However, it seemed the templar had long since run dry of such niceties, as the man only snorted, his bulbous nostrils flaring and flapped a hand at Bin’s face.

“Back with the others, Ferelden.”  The man dropped his hand, letting it fall upon the pommel of his sheathed sword. It was not quite a warning, but Bin wondered if he might have been so bold had Bin still carried his greatsword. Certainly, the templar had the shield, but a greatsword’s reach rivaled that of any good polearm, and he had the muscle to wield it as a crude battering stick when necessary.

As soon as the thought struck him he stepped away from the templar, letting the foremost ranks of the crowd cluster around him once more. Why had he thought that?

About him, the crowd was growing more agitated, cries of, “Let us in!” all but drowning out their lesser counterparts. The templar Bin had spoken to threw his arm out and shouted, “Kirkwall will no longer accept refugees! The only way in is if a citizen of Kirkwall can vouch for you and pay the appropriate dues.”

The roar of the Fereldens rose to a fever pitch, and they began to shove forward. Even as the crowd surged forward, emboldened by their numbers, Bin drew back, fighting against the current. The templar cried out a set of names, rapid-fire, and suddenly a wall of gleaming, armored bodies rose to meet the refugees. What courage the refugees possessed fled in the face of armed soldiers, and they turned upon each other in their haste to escape punishment.

Away from the crowd, yet another bystander watching from the shadows of the courtyard, Bin glimpsed gauntleted hands close around napes, shoulders, wrists. Those smartest among the protesters dropped all attempts at flight with their capture. Those that struggled – Bin winced as one armored fist smashed into a man’s nose, the crush of bone echoing wetly in the courtyard. The man who’d been hit reeled back howling, and two more templars came at him from his flanks.

It was over in a matter of moments, all of the Fereldens’ rage given way to despair. Those that had not been taken into custody drifted into the shadows cast by the many pillars. Bin stood undecided, not certain whether he might risk another confrontation or seek help elsewhere. Briefly, he looked toward the stalls set up. Perhaps he might find a benefactor there? But he knew to make it worthwhile to a merchant, he must be prepared to accept any conditions, no matter how unkind they might be. The statues of slaves told Bin it had been common practice in the past – he wondered if that still held true now but was simply better hidden.

“They should have known better,” said a voice from beside him. “Smart move, not sticking around.” He startled violently, hand reaching for a sword that was not there, even as his eyes darted to his side – and then down. Beside him stood a man who Bin thought was a dwarf.

He thought that, but a second look showed him the man did not possess a beard and was dressed more finely than any of the nobles Bin had ever seen.   Certainly, he had the large nose Bin had seen on all dwarves, but he was not red-faced nor was his voice the grinding of stones. The man offered him a small smile, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his breeches, and Bin blurted out, “Are you a dwarf?”

They stared at each other for a moment. Bin felt the color rising to his cheeks, and he tucked his hands into fists, fighting against the urge to rub at his neck. At last, when he was ready to turn and flee, the man raised one eyebrow, crackled a smile, and began to chuckle quietly.

“Am I a _dwarf_?” he managed to ask between the giggles that spilled from his lips. “Is this what they teach you in Ferelden? Someone walks up to you, and you just ask—you ask, ‘Excuse me, are you perhaps a bear?’”

“It isn’t that funny,” Bin muttered. He had given up any attempt at hiding his embarrassment and instead cupped his neck with one hand, rubbing at it busily.

“If I’d asked if you were a human, you would have found it funny.”

“No.” Bin’s voice cracked on the word, further flaring his nerves.

The dwarf raised both eyebrows at Bin, a smile tugging at his lips again. “Maybe not,” he relented. “But perhaps I can help you, friend.”

“Why would you?”

“Don’t worry, it’s not out of the kindness of my heart.” The man settled back against the stone column, casually crossing one foot over the other with his hip cocked out. “I saw you get off the boat with that giant sword. You looked like you knew how to use it. Where is it now?”

“My mother has it,” Bin answered. He turned and nodded in her direction. Across the courtyard she was just a darkened figure stood beside one of the walls, almost entirely hidden by shadow.

“And you’re both fleeing Ferelden?” Though the dwarf had maintained a pleasant tone throughout the entirety of the conversation, Bin thought perhaps the man was more somber here, a touch softer. As if he shared in the sorrow of their home’s plight.

It was this thought that made him speak truthfully, “Yes. Our town was destroyed by the darkspawn. We used up what money we had to get here.” He wondered if Sugar was still alive, if Gwaren yet stood.

The dwarf offered Bin another smile, his expression taut. “I’m sorry to hear that. It seems to be a familiar tale among the refugees that have fled here.” He wetted his lips, then asked, “What sort of combat experience do you have?”

“I was there with King Cailan’s army during the battle at Ostagar. My unit was assigned to scout behind darkspawn lines.”

“So you saw plenty of fighting?”

“Not as much as some of the others, but I believe I can hold my own in a fight.” Belatedly he added, “Ser,” not knowing if it would do any good but hoping that this strange, short man, might provide the hope he and his mother had been lacking ever since their flight from Ferelden.

His spirits lifted when the man offered a satisfied smile, the corners of his eyes crinkling. “Then I can help you.” He stuck out a hand toward Bin, adding, “My name is Jinwoo. I work for a mercenary company, and I’d like for you to join us.”

_Mercenary_ , Bin thought – but that was all he allowed himself to think, taking hold of Jinwoo’s hand and shaking it resolutely. It was not a matter of ideals and beliefs at this point. He would take being a sellsword over being shackled as a slave, and Jinwoo had not once generated unease, though he had certainly pricked Bin’s pride. “My name is Bin,” he answered.

 “Well then, shall we see about visiting your mother?” The dwarf wore another smile. It seemed too easily given, this stranger’s kindness, but the knowledge that his mother would suffer equally for each mistake he made turned Bin’s tongue leaden. At last, he swallowed and nodded and led Jinwoo to where his mother waited.

She had been examining his greatsword before he they came near, but as he approached, she rose from her crouched position, once more leaning it against the wall she stood beside. “Bin,” she greeted, even as her eyes skipped past him to examine Jinwoo. Hesitantly, as uncertain as he felt, she asked, “Are you his friend, ser?”

“’Serah’ in Kirkwall,” Jinwoo said. “It’s something of a regional dialect. And yes, I think we shall be friends, in time.” He turned his head then, regarded Bin, and added, “Assuming he agrees, I think we have found a way for you to enter the city.”

And then, in greater detail, did Jinwoo spin out his plan. It was indentured servitude, of a kind. “You’re bound to serve the company a year, in exchange for what we supply up front,” Jinwoo said. “We shall provide you and your mother access into the city, sponsorship – lodgings as well, but you’re free to bed elsewhere if so desired.”

“What of salary?” Bin’s mother asked. Her hands were not quite clasped together; instead, she held onto her wrists.

“We operate through contracts,” Jinwoo answered. “So what money he earns will be based on what jobs he takes on.”

It was a good deal. Bin could not deny the truth of it, even if a small worry continued to nip at his mind, unknown but persistent.  Perhaps sensing his mother’s skepticism, Jinwoo added, “We’ve a want for extra hands with the influx of bodies. And though my heart bleeds for all the refugees fleeing Ferelden, we are business first and foremost. Bin here can wield a sword, so we’ll save costs in training.”

Then, turning toward the sword, he asked, “May I?”

With a glance toward Bin for confirmation, his mother delicately reached for the greatsword. The dwarf and his mother were of a similar height, but whereas she struggled against its unwieldy length, he took it casually in one hand, his grip certain. Though the man was still dressed finely, Bin had the sudden thought that Jinwoo was perhaps not as sheltered and soft as he had previously believed.

“The edge is dulling,” the dwarf said. “Whetstone won’t get much more sharpness than what it already has. Nicely-balanced, not heavy like a stone. We can probably find something of similar quality.” He set his finger against the blade, pressed lightly against the edge and asked, “Armor?”

“A few leather pieces when I went to war. I think we sold them.”

Jinwoo clicked his tongue and turned his gaze back to Bin. With a small quirk of his lips, he said, “Looks like we’ll be paying for armor and a weapon then. I’ll take care of it.”

“Ser—serah?”

“We need extra bodies, like I said. But the company won’t like having to outfit you. Might turn you away. So let me pay for it.” At Bin’s dumbfounded expression, Jinwoo offered a wink. “Consider it payment for the laugh I had.”

Afterwards, Bin could only helplessly follow the current. First came the outfitting, which Jinwoo took care of with a short visit to one of the nearby stalls. He returned with a set of leather armor and a “great bastard of a two-hander,” said with some effort on the dwarf’s part, so loaded down with armor was he. Then, satisfied that Bin was well-equipped, the dwarf headed toward the gates that led into the city proper. He disappeared through one of the many doors that littered the walls of the fortress’s courtyard, and returned but an hour after, his face still pleasant, an ink-marked piece of parchment carried in his hands.

When it came time to pass through the guards, Bin could not help but offer the templar he had met earlier a small smile and a discreet wave. The man only snorted, a quick flare of his nostrils, and returned to watching the courtyard, his spine as stiff as an iron rod.

Kirkwall, Jinwoo explained, was a city carved from the cliffs themselves. Naturally, the nobility and upper-class of Kirkwall were the highest, gazing down upon the rest of the city – and so, their section of the city was known as Hightown. “And this is Lowtown,” he added, as they finally exited the fortress.

“And where we just were?” Bin’s mother inquired.

“The Gallows,” Jinwoo said with an odd twist of his mouth. “When this city was under Imperium rule, it was where they kept their slaves. Now, it's where we keep our mages.” He looked back toward Bin and his mother, as if expecting a reaction.

But Bin had thought as much and it seemed his mother had come to the same conclusion, for she only said, “It would explain the templar presence.”

“That’s the way of it, serah,” Jinwoo confirmed. “As the templars control the Gallows, so the city guard watches over Hightown. They have some influence in Lowtown, but we mostly rule ourselves.”

“Where are we going?” They had been traveling for some amount of time, upward and away from the docks, and while Bin had been afforded a better view of the city (stone upon stone upon stone, all huddled together like the buildings were scared to be seen apart), he wanted to know their destination. It was a reassertion of his own control, a reminder that he was not be led docilely like a lamb.

“Your new home.” So saying, Jinwoo withdrew a trio of keys, strung upon a thin leather strap. He jangled them together, and after a few moments of further travel, cut down a side road, seemingly unmindful of the way the buildings crowded around him, throwing the alleyway he traveled into heavy shadow.

_He is a dwarf_ , Bin thought. Stones and darkness were likely as natural to him as a blue sky and open fields were to Bin.

Jinwoo stopped before a single door, the keys clacking against each other as he chose one and set it within the door’s lock. Then, with a quick twist, the door swung open, its contents immersed in shadow. “Inside,” Jinwoo said, holding the door wide for them to pass through.

Bin and his mother filed in obediently, and Jinwoo followed after. Though the rooms were blanketed in darkness, the dwarf showed no fear, busily going about the task of fetching candles and lighting them. When the room was suitably lit, Jinwoo finally closed the door of their house.

“Like most Lowtown houses, we pay rent to the landlady who owns this string. You probably won’t see her—she doesn’t like entering Lowtown and the company will send payment on their own—but if you do, she’s a short little human. Yellow hair—eyes like a Mabari. Breathes a bit like one, too.” He spoke idly as he moved about, setting down candles in the other rooms.

From where he stood, Bin could see that the house opened onto the living area, connected to the kitchen through an open doorway. A short hall ran away from the main room, and a quick glance down it confirmed two separate rooms set on either side of it.

“Bedrooms,” Jinwoo said when he saw Bin look. “A chamber pot each, and there’s a sewage drain along that main road we traveled before; dump any waste you have there. I know one of the rooms has a bathing tub. Either use that or there’s a communal bathhouse near the docks.”

Bin could only blink, dumbfounded. Hesitantly, his mother asked, “Is there a well nearby?”

“There’s a well nearby for drawing bathwater. Too bad Lowtown isn’t afforded the same luxury as Hightown. They have _pipes_.”

Bin and his mother exchanged a glance as Jinwoo now turned toward the door. He thought he had heard mention of pipes once before – a system for carrying water, though the conclusion drawn was that it would only work in waterside cities. Kirkwall certainly qualified as such a place.

The short tour Jinwoo had provided came to an end as he showed how to both lock the door and affix a chain lock near the top. “We aren’t as kind as country folk,” he said, and then, wetting his lips, added, “Serah, if I might take your son for a time? I promise he’ll return before long.”

Though the question had been directed at Bin’s mother, she had settled into unpacking the chest of valuables they had brought, and she laid out a small hand-mirror before answering, “You can take him forever, if you’d like.”

Bin’s spluttering gasp of, “Mother!” could not quite drown out Jinwoo’s rich laughter. He answered at last, “That’s kind of you, but he isn’t my type,” causing Bin to blanch, and then was opening the door and stepping outside. With a sour expression, Bin bid farewell to his mother and followed the still-laughing dwarf out.

Once they were properly away from the house, Bin asked, “So, why did you need me?”

“I figured you might like to meet the boss. Or another of them, anyway. You already met me.” He threw a wink at Bin, and the man scratched at his neck, not-quite hating his mother but feeling somewhat put out. But if she were so willing to joke at Bin’s expense then she must feel at ease with Jinwoo – and her instincts were incredibly keen. He sighed and momentarily closed his eyes thinking, _It’s been a long day_.

The transition from Lowtown to Hightown was stark. Whereas Lowtown had been a muddle of browns and greys, clay and stone and any other hue washed out and drab, Hightown was a veritable feast of colors. Each mansion stood separate from the others, each encircled by high fencing. Ivy curled down from windowsills, as free-flowing as a maiden’s hair, while banners of noble houses snapped in the wind. Blues, reds, yellows – everywhere was color, and Bin blinked, suddenly startled to realize he had been without such variety since he and his mother had boarded their ship and sailed from Ferelden.

The stone underfoot was pristine, and in a small courtyard Bin glimpsed stalls, each bursting with color and overflowing with exotics items, their owners as finely-dressed as Jinwoo. He was suddenly aware of his own appearance: drab and dingy, his tunic sweat-darkened and his hose spotted with holes. But Jinwoo had taken no notice of how he dressed. So perhaps the company would not care either: after all, they were a mercenary group. Their sellswords would not dress in finery but rather in rough clothes for rough work. They must be used to such appearances as his.

Of course, upon approaching the company’s building, such thoughts did little to wash away his discomfort. And perhaps Jinwoo took notice, for the dwarf’s walk eased, the conversation he had kept up through their journey turning now to what Bin might buy with his first reward. He suggested a gift for Bin’s mother then, turning a sly eye toward Bin, added innocently, “A lunch for me, perhaps?”

“Maybe,” Bin answered with a half-smile. Jinwoo’s attempts at distraction were not fully successful, but they did keep his stomach from going to knots. And then they were inside proper, Jinwoo immediately striding up to the man who stood behind the main room’s counter. A quick exchange burst between them, and then Jinwoo was slipping into a back room.

Left alone, Bin fidgeted. At last the man behind the countertop took pity upon him and waved him over. “You that sun-touched bastard’s new project, then?”

“Pardon?”

The man rolled his eyes before gesturing toward where Jinwoo had disappeared. “The dwarf—Jinwoo.”

“Yes,” Bin answered slowly. But before he could question the man’s use of words, the door Jinwoo had gone into opened and he poked his head out, gesturing toward Bin. “Excuse me,” Bin muttered, eager to be away, and quickly moved toward Jinwoo, stepping inside the small office.

The room was cramped, a wooden desk taking up most of the space with a chair nestled behind. Upon this chair sat another dwarf—but a proper dwarf, with the beard, the nose, the mane of curling, bushy hair that streamed down into the beard. And eyebrows, Bin thought, trying not to stare. The man had _massive_ eyebrows.

“Our newest hire,” the man said. His voice was a heavy rumble, the growl of approaching thunder, and he observed Bin with an appraising eye. “Bin, was it?”

“Yes, serah,” Bin said, dipping into a short bow. A quick glance at Jinwoo showed this had been the correct move, as the dwarf stood at ease, looking relaxed and open compared to his counterpart.

“Name’s Ahren. Messere if you want to be polite. Jinwoo told me you came from Ferelden?”

_This old song and dance_ , Bin thought but answered dutifully. “Yes, messere. I was with King Cailan’s army in Ostagar. I escaped in the aftermath.”

“That you escaped asks the question: are you a coward or clever?”

“Lucky, I think,” Jinwoo interjected. Once more a smile tugged at his lips, but Bin thought there was nothing nice about it. _Like a mabari_ , he thought, _about_ _to_ _snarl_.

“You would say that,” Ahren answered with a smile of his own.

“And I’d be right.”

Bin said, “I think we all wanted to stand and fight, but our captain saw there was no use in joining the dead. If not for him, I would not be here.”

“He’ll be more pleasant company than some of the others we’ve contracted into the work,” Jinwoo said. “Think of the requests we receive from the nobles. How many times has a deal fallen through because of a lout’s loose tongue?”

“Fair enough. Babysit him until he’s capable of taking on his own matters, though. If we’re shelling out this much money, I want him to live long enough for a return on my investment.” Finished, Ahren raised his hand in an obvious dismissal. Both Jinwoo and Bin bowed, and then they left the room.

The pair strolled out of the building and as they hit open sky, Jinwoo stretched his arms above him, reaching toward the clouds that drifted lazily overhead. “I think he likes you,” he said, a grin having somehow wormed its way onto his face in the brief span they had not spoken.

“Are you all right being partners with me?” Bin asked. The idea sat uncomfortably with him. It was not that he did not trust Jinwoo – and surely the dwarf must have some sort of martial ability, that Ahren had suggested _he_ watch _Bin_ – but the loss of his squad was still a weeping wound in his chest. He had supped with those men, fought with those men. He knew the captain had died, but had he been the only one to live?

Jinwoo knew none of his worries, though. Instead, the dwarf barked a short peal of laughter, again reminding Bin of a dog, and answered, “I’ve no choice in the matter, now do I?” More seriously, he added, “But I prefer it this way. It’ll allow me to help you and your mother, right?”

“But, we’re strangers,” Bin protested. “Or we were.”

Jinwoo smiled again, but there was nothing joyful in his voice as he said, “I don’t like to see people hurt. So I help where I can. I’d like to keep helping you, if you’d let me.”

Suddenly Bin realized that just as Jinwoo knew nothing of his past hurts, so too did he know nothing of Jinwoo’s. He must fix that, if the pair were to be friends, partners. "I thought you said you weren't doing this out of the goodness of your heart."

"Would you have believed me if I said I was?"

"No."

_"_ And that's why I didn't say it," Jinwoo said. 

The pair trudged back toward Bin's new home, the sun slowly dipping below the cliffs of Kirkwall. 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you all for the fabulous response <3 we're actually still a few chapters away from eunwoo appearing, but it's coming! also chapters will be slower now due to my break ending, so if the next chapter takes a few weeks that's why ;;
> 
> jinjin dwarf basically looks the same as real-life jinjin, its just now he's shorter than everyone instead of just the herd of giraffes in his group lmao. the no-bearded, "are you really a dwarf??" thing does actually have a canon example in varric from da2/da:i, this isn't just me making up shit to keep everyone looking the same lmao
> 
> in the da universe, most dwarves live underground, but there are some that live above-ground. dwarves that live aboveground are looked down upon by their brethren beneath and called things like stone-blind, cloudgazer, etc. stone-blind is a pretty serious insult as the dwarves are closely connected to the stone and minerals (the mineral lyrium literally _sings_ ), so the suggestion that you've lost the ability to hear the stone's voice isssss not good lmao


	3. Chapter III

 

 

 

Even bundled in the scarf his mother had knitted him a few months prior during Feastday, Bin could not stop the minute shivers that spread across his body. What flesh was exposed to the cold air was flushed red, and his lips had been chapped since the first winter storm rolled through.

It had been some five months since he had first journeyed to Kirkwall, and he now awaited Jinwoo outside the Hanged Man. While the tavern’s barkeep would have eagerly welcomed him in, he had learned early on that only presumed drunks frequented the place during the early morning. And it was certainly too soon for any reputable patron to enter – the sun had barely crested the frost-covered city, and last night’s chill clung stubbornly to the stone beneath Bin’s feet.

He was not surprised by his friend’s tardiness; the dwarf slept when he could and kept odd hours even Bin had trouble tracking. Sometimes Jinwoo would simply disappear for days, and when he returned his eyes carried bags. Bin’s mother had suggested a shy but jealous lover, but Bin considered Jinwoo of better sense than that. Perhaps not finer taste, but he had no point of reference.

In Bin’s case, the memories of Ostagar had receded, allowing him to once more experience dreamless sleep. And yet they he knew the terrors that had so gripped him still existed, lingering on the edges of his mind. They clung as closely as shadows, whispers of a fragility that he was not comfortable acknowledging. He did not know when they would pierce the barrier his mind had built, knew only that his temper still flared on occasions with no justifiable cause. It was a source of constant stress to him, though small enough that he might forget it in times of revelry or when those he cherished drew near.

Across the street from him a shopkeep bustled by, head bowed before the cold and bald pate gleaming in the morning light. Bin recognized him as the owner of his mother’s favorite bakery, a man who had once traded his mother several loaves of spiced bread in return for nothing more than her opinion. In truth it had been a gift of gratitude, because it was his mother who had helped the man’s wife birth a pair of difficult twins – but his mother was not one for handouts, and so the baker had attached a hardly-reasonable exchange to his gift.

Even now the memory of it made Bin smile beneath the coils of his muffler, chapped lips throbbing in protest against the small movement. They had begun to build up a life here, his mother and he, and though not all residents of Kirkwall were welcoming, it had begun to feel like home. In comparison, Ferelden had become a story, a tale of a past life that verged on fiction.

News of Gwaren’s loss had followed shortly after their arrival, and then the darkspawn had turned south once more so that they might consume the population that ranged through the Hinterlands, following the curve of the land’s spine. They had not yet reached the Arl of Redcliffe’s innermost lands, but with the lord supposedly teetering between life and death, there was no great army risen in opposition. Supposedly Grey Wardens from Orlais had positioned themselves on the border of the two countries, though none made any attempts to cross. Then again, how could they, when the teyrn had ordered their own members’ deaths?

Compared to the mess of Ferelden, Kirkwall’s own intrigues were of a decidedly lesser affair. There was some unease toward the current Knight Commander of the templars, one Meredith Stannard, but not many concerned themselves with the plight of mages. Otherwise there was word that the viscount’s son was not a suitable heir – but the viscount himself was rumored to be a puppet installed by the templars. Perhaps the greatest dilemma, Bin thought, came in the form of the Ferelden refugees. Many had fled to Kirkwall and used up the entirety of their wealth in securing their journey. And even for those who might pay, entrance was barred without a suitable sponsor from within the city itself.

The predicament of those fleeing Fereldens had only risen with the seasons’ passage into winter, for the sea often carried a cold wind. What men and women yet waited to gain access into the city now lived within the Gallows, the massive courtyard suddenly absurdly undersized when faced with so many displaced souls. The few times Bin had visited, both to remind himself of what Jinwoo had saved him from, as well as provide what aid he might, he had seen the slow transformation of the square into something of a camp.

Not all had chosen to stay within the Gallows, of course. Some had ventured outside the city and set up their own ramshackle establishments along the Wounded Coast. Bin had visited such settlements a handful of times, often to fetch a runaway noble son or daughter and return them to their irate parents. Most children were happy to re-immerse themselves in the comforts Hightown provided when faced with a life where your bed was the ground and what shelter you had was old linen draped across a handful of sticks.

When Bin spotted Jinwoo at last, the dwarf was steadily plodding toward him, coming down from the higher levels of the city with his eyes narrowed near shut against the brisk wind that tossed litter about the streets.

“Good morning,” Bin said, trying not to smile at his friend’s obvious dismay. Though the cold still nipped at his exposed cheeks, he knew the dwarf was far worse off. Above the coat that rose to Jinwoo's lips, his nose was red, his cheeks as pink as the nug one of Bin’s neighbors kept as a pet. His hair was flattened beneath a cap that made him look more boy than man. Bin wondered if any of the nobility had flipped a copper bit Jinwoo’s way, mistaking him for a town crier.

“Morning,” Jinwoo mumbled back when he was nearer. Almost immediately the dwarf huddled close to Bin, and the man swept his greatsword up and onto his shoulder so that the dwarf could press as near as he pleased without fear of the weapon interfering. They stood that way for a few moments, Bin angled in such a way that Jinwoo was kept between himself and the Hanged Man, where the worst of the wind could not reach him.

Then, heaving a great sigh, as if speaking itself was tiresome, Jinwoo said, “Might as well go. The sooner we finish the sooner I can go back home and sleep.”

“Late night?” Bin asked, but he made no attempt to move away from his position.

“No worse than usual,” Jinwoo responded. He raised one hand to rub at his nose, sniffling a bit, then stepped around Bin and out onto the street proper. “But the cold makes me sleepy. So, let’s go?” He framed it as a question, looking back toward Bin with his head cocked.

“All right,” Bin agreed easily.

With his assent secured, Jinwoo wasted no time in heading toward one of the gates that led outside the city. While the fastest route into Kirkwall was upon the sea, it was possible to travel across the land and reach the city. Merchants traveling along the land-based route often headed to Kirkwall by following the Wounded Coast, named as such for the number of ships that had attempted to moor themselves along its length and been smashed to timber in the process.

The city guard had enlisted their mercenary group when reports of banditry across the coast began to spread. Due to its sheer size, it was impossible for such a small force to guard both it and the city proper. The templars had offered only polite regrets when asked if they might assist, so mercenary companies such as Bin’s had been contracted to help patrol. Bin and Jinwoo had been tapped for the morning patrols, so that they might receive the bulk of the payment, while another group handled the routes at night.

It had been some two months since they began this job and with no end in sight, Bin was beginning to think this might well be how he passed the rest of his days in Kirkwall. If he had any complaints, it was that the pay might be a smidge higher for the amount of ground they traveled – but he also liked the stability of it, and what danger they faced was so little as to keep his mother satisfied.

Off the top of his head, he could only count three times they had drawn swords. And each battle against bandits might well have been little more than a scrap after the darkspawn he had faced at Ostagar. Too often the would-be thieves were desperate, desirous of supplies or wealth that might buy their way into the city. He could not hate them or look down upon them, and he knew Jinwoo felt the same. After all, the dwarf was always so careful in his handling of them: smacking their weapons away with the flat of his sword when he could have so easily lopped a hand off instead. Or, the few times they had come at him, fists swinging, a simple shove of his shield, letting their heads or knuckles or whatever came nearest first rebound off the curved metal, so that the great ringing that echoed after might bring them to their senses.

But most, when faced with trained fighters both armored and wielding proper weapons, had simply fled.

Bin was so absorbed with what they might find beyond the walls today that he was not able to warn his friend of the approaching figure that scurried along a path opposite theirs, head bowed against the chill. Instead, he only became aware of the danger a second too late, hands reaching out to steady Jinwoo as the dwarf collided with the stranger, both issuing a startled sound and throwing their heads up in surprise. Beneath the stranger’s cloak, Bin caught sight of a boy’s face, mouth slack with surprise.

Then, as Jinwoo regained his balance, the boy hurriedly dropped into a bow, so deep that Bin thought he would kiss the floor were he to dip any lower, begging, “A thousand apologies, messere!” The boy continued his sputtered attempts at amends until Jinwoo lifted his hand, mouth quirked in an expression Bin recognized as wry distaste. He was not one for prostrations, and he flapped the boy away with a flurry of his hand, saying, “It’s fine, it’s fine—we ran into each other equally.” And, when the boy still seemed keen to apologize, “Be on your way, please. I’ve places to be myself.”

“Bless you, messere,” was the boy’s final words as he dropped once more into a deep bow, and then he was straightening and hurrying away, feet taking flight with a suddenness that left Bin suspicious. Abruptly he turned toward Jinwoo, about to voice his concerns, only for the dwarf to suddenly laugh: a loud, belly laugh that drew a few quick glances from those nearby.

“No wonder he was so sorry,” the dwarf said. His voice had brightened considerably from the encounter; no longer did he sound as if sleep and cold took turns nipping at his heels. “Little mud splasher just robbed me blind.” Jinwoo lifted his cloak, just enough so that Bin could see the empty place where he normally kept his coin pouch.

“Should we chase him?” Bin asked.  The boy had a head start on them, but Bin was fast.

“It’s fine,” Jinwoo said, his lips still quirked – though now he looked more amused than anything else, as if the child’s robbery of him had inspired awe instead of ire.

Dwarves, Bin had learned some time ago, were incredibly strange. Or perhaps it was just Jinwoo.

“If he was so willing to steal from two obviously armed men, he must have needed it more than me.”

“Would you say the same if someone took your house?”

Jinwoo laughed, reaching up to clap Bin on the shoulder. “That’s what I have my good friend Bin for; he’d certainly take pity on me.” Bin was about to retort when Jinwoo added, “Or your mother. You know how much she loves me.”

“Only because you’re a mother yourself,” Bin jabbed back.

The dwarf only grinned, as if he had been paid a compliment. “Exactly. So, listen to your second mother, Binnie.” And he patted Bin again, this time on the back like a parent encouraging their child.

Bin fought against the urge to roll his eyes and allowed Jinwoo to once more lead him on.

The journey to the Wounded Coast was slow-going. Once they were outside of the city proper, they were faced with a coastline that held no sympathy for its travelers. Even the main road, frequented by merchants, was not kind, oftentimes crossing back upon itself or requiring an exceptionally long detour as they circled particularly rocky terrain.  Once they were upon the Wounded Coast proper, Bin climbed higher and higher, steps careful across the treacherous ground, so that he might see the black sea that lashed against Kirkwall’s cliffs and frothed greedily along the coast’s broken and jagged beaches.

Jinwoo waited patiently for him, and once he had drunk in his fill of the sea-swamped air, Bin headed back down to join his companion. The start of their patrol was uneventful, a few hours spent carefully navigating paths that twisted upon themselves like mating snakes, one or the other occasionally heading up a footpath that branched off from the packed-down road.

Bin kept his greatsword held across his shoulders as he had learned from the first skirmish that bandits were not in the habit of allowing you time to draw your sword free of its sheath – and the back-carrying method of a greatsword was not designed to allow a swift release of the blade. In comparison, Jinwoo kept his shield steady in his hand but his sword at his hip, as a shortsword proved far more easily drawn from its sheath. As for the shield? “Arrows,” he’d said, the one time Bin asked. “Without ranged support, you need someone to take fire until they can get close enough to enemy archers.”

They were nearing the tide pools that had formed across an uneven expanse of beach when Jinwoo suddenly stilled in his steps. The dwarf stood in place for a few moments, head cocked to the side, like a dog trying to discern some distant sound. Bin stood silent beside him, eyes narrowed, tongue dipping out to swipe across his upper lip; beneath the constant sound of lapping waves he could only discern the calls of distant sea birds.

But it did not matter. When Jinwoo moved, struck by a quickness that Bin only ever saw in times of trouble, he followed the dwarf. His sword he leveraged in his hand, checking the grip, shoulders rolling in preparation.

Jinwoo darted around a mass of broken boulders, and Bin hurried his pace. Together they came upon the scene that had drawn the dwarf’s attention: a single figure stood against a jutting rock, back not quite touching the stone. Opposite circled a trio of men, each pacing with the steady, assured steps of a predator nearing its quarry.

The lone man stood with a great bow drawn taut, an arrow fletched with white and red feathers already nocked and waiting. Near his opposition, Bin spotted a pair of men, both slumped over and peppered with several arrows.

At Bin and Jinwoo’s appearance, the archer abruptly swung the bow in their direction, aiming down the arrow with a sure-handedness that had Jinwoo raising his shield in reaction. At the same time, face hidden from all but Bin by the width of his shield, he inclined his head slightly.

Bin needed no further confirmation.

He circled Jinwoo, cutting left and toward the three men that had begun to edge nearer the archer with his attention turned away. Immediately the archer turned to follow his movement – but Bin was already closing the space between himself and the nearest bandit with a swift dash, two-handed sword carving through the distance that remained to cut through the man’s tunic, opening up the skin beneath.

The man fell back, recoiling in both surprise and pain, and his fellows rose to take his place. But it was just as they had planned, for the archer, recognizing them as an ally, loosed an arrow into one of the remaining men. The arrow punched through the man’s throat, and he dropped, scrambling to claw at the embedded head. At the same time, Bin raised his sword to meet the final man’s slash, catching it on the flat of his sword, tilting his grip so that it slid off harmlessly, sparks flying where metal scraped metal. Then, sweeping his arms in a heavy swipe, he caught the man mid-torso, lifting him up and off his feet and sending him flying back.

Swiftly, with the same frankness he employed in all his movements, Jinwoo followed in Bin’s wake, sword drawn to lop off the head of the man who yet lived. The one who had taken an arrow through the throat had added a second and third to his exposed back and moved no more.

Bin turned to regard the archer with a weary smile – only to still when he found the bow still drawn, another arrow in place and aimed straight at his heart. He fought against the urge to move, instead flicking his eyes in Jinwoo’s direction. The dwarf watched the archer with a frown, his brow furrowed.

“It’s rude to aim at the people who just saved you,” Bin offered at last, when Jinwoo continued to stare.

“It’s only rude if you had no ulterior motives,” said the archer. His voice was silvery, a clear tone that drew to mind the blue sky above. Faintly accented, Bin could tell. _But where is it from?_

“What’s a man from Starkhaven doing here?” Jinwoo asked. Bin blinked, turning to look in his friend’s direction.

The archer seemed somewhat disconcerted that Jinwoo had placed his home so easily. The bow he had held ready had lost its target, the string no longer drawn so tight as the stranger half-lowered his weapon to regard Jinwoo – or at least Bin thought he was watching the dwarf. It was difficult to tell: he was covered from head to toe in a cloak that had seen better days, the hood atop his head obscuring most of his face.

“Running,” the man retorted, voice imperious beneath the veil of anonymity. But he further lowered his bow, slender fingers plucking the arrow from its place and stowing it back among its brethren in the quiver that lay flush against his thigh.

“I had wondered,” Jinwoo said.

Bin could not help but turn to his friend, eyebrows raised. “What?” he said.

“You haven’t been here long enough,” Jinwoo answered. “But the Grand Tourney draws the entirety of the Free Marches to compete for glory against one another. Only one family uses that sort of arrow.”

“If you know so much,” the archer retorted, “then you’d also know why I’d keep using them, even if they do reveal my identity.”

His wariness seemed to have evaporated. The man moved in their direction and Bin stepped back instinctively, fingers rubbing at the grip of his sword. But the man showed no further aggression, only kneeling down beside the men he had downed. He withdrew a short knife from its sheath at his hip and set to work at cutting free the arrows embedded in their bodies.

“They’ve a barb to them,” Jinwoo said, coming to stand beside Bin. An explanation, Bin thought, for he was the only one in the dark on the archer’s identity. “If you try to rip them out they’ll shred whatever they’ve stuck in on the way out. And the fletching—those are falcon feathers.”

Then, once more speaking to the archer, the dwarf added, “I’ve heard the birds they’re taken from only nest in the Vimmark Mountains.”

Beneath his breath the archer mumbled something. Then, standing back up, he properly approached the pair. Bin had by now slung his sword across his shoulders, confident in the sight it presented. But the man, drawn closer, only released what sounded like a scoff. It was made all the more perplexing, that he showed such bravery, when he was nearly as small as Jinwoo.

Jinwoo likewise looked puzzled. “I didn’t know the Vaels were a dwarven family.”

 _Vaels_ – the name connected instantly in Bin’s head. His mother had briefly mentioned them in her description of the Free Marches’ many city-states. They were the ruling family of Starkhaven, powerful allies of the Chantry. Bin could only blink at the archer, dumbfounded: this man was a _prince_.

“Why were you fighting bandits?” he asked, unable to keep the question from slipping free.

With a gesture that bespoke his exasperation, the man swept the hood off his head, hand rising to run through the ash-blonde hair that sprang free, the locks curling lazily around his boyish face.

“So you don’t know,” the prince said. “Of what happened in Starkhaven?”

“No,” Jinwoo answered. 

The Vael sighed. “A few nights ago, a small army marched upon my family’s lands. They slaughtered the guards, our staff, my family.” He paused, biting his lip briefly. Bin met his eyes, suddenly reminded of the clash at Ostagar. The man stared back at him for a moment before turning his gaze elsewhere, continuing, “I slipped out through one of the servants’ passages. The grounds were swarming with men, so I abandoned any hope of seeking assistance in the city. I ran.” He shrugged. “They followed. And here I am.”

The flippancy with which he spoke of his family’s death disturbed Bin. And yet, despite his unease, he also felt a sense of camaraderie with the man – they had both lost their entire life in a single night.

“And I’m not a dwarf,” the prince added, the sudden shift in topic earning a surprised snort from Bin. The sound transformed into an outright guffaw as the man said, “I’m much too handsome to be one.”

A quick glance aimed at Jinwoo revealed the dwarf’s reaction was much more contained, only the rise of his eyebrows and a flat, “Really?” his only rebuttal to the man’s claims.

“Of course,” the prince answered. He seemed satisfied to have the conversation directed away from his family.

Trying to ease the tension that had risen between the pair of men, Bin asked, “What will you do?”

“I was planning on entering Kirkwall,” the archer answered, turning away easily from Jinwoo.

“They won’t let you in,” Bin said. He quickly explained the circumstances Kirkwall found itself in, overflowing with refugees struggling to handle the crime that was beginning to surge. The prince listened, brow furrowed and mouth pursed.

When Bin had finished his explanation the prince suddenly smiled, so sweetly that Bin thought he might be able to bribe his way inside with that expression alone.  Because the man was a prince, Bin expected him to speak some wise words of wisdom – perhaps speak to the refugees’ plight and how he might aid them, a living Black Fox.

Instead, what came of his mouth was, “Then you two can just sneak me in.”

Bin could only stare back at the man, his brazen smile and confident expression monetarily stunning Bin into speechlessness. Jinwoo was not quite so easily taken in, for he retorted, “And what makes you so special compared to all those refugees who are denied entry? Why you over them?”

“Because,” the prince said, unperturbed, “once I am inside the city, I can begin to exert my influence. The Grand Cleric of Kirkwall’s Chantry is an old friend of my family. Allow me the opportunity to speak with her, and soon you’ll have a riot of Sisters attempting to break down the Viscount’s door, condemning his cruelty toward the ill-fated.”

At some point his words had smoothed out, taken on a lilt that was almost lyrical, and Bin recognized the practiced speech of a noble. They were honeyed words, and had they not wrung so false following his careful cunning, Bin might have been lulled into complacency. A quick look at Jinwoo confirmed he also recognized what the prince was doing, for the dwarf’s eyes had narrowed to unkind slits, a rarity that sat oddly upon a face so easily given to smiles.

“You must think us sacks of sod, to be won so easily over. Kirkwall is near fit to burst with all its loud-mouthed nobles. I don’t think we’ll add another.”

“But you might not have a choice.” The prince stood there with the same pleasant smile on his face.

“What?” Bin asked.

The prince gestured, away from the rocks, toward the inlet that curved beneath the cliffs that held up Kirkwall’s most prosperous citizens. Bin narrowed his eyes, attempting to discern what the Vael had motioned toward. And then he saw it, rising like the grasping hand of a desperate, drowning sailor: the broken mast of a massive ship.

Behind him, Jinwoo spat out a curse.

Across the continent of Thedas, the Maker and his Chantry held the bulk of the population’s belief. Here and there, in the small pockets of land they’d carved out for themselves, the Dalish offered worship to an elven pantheon. And, in the Imperium, it had once been the Old Gods who ruled – they who became Archdemons and led the darkspawn into battle when awoken from their slumbering prisons. Now the country followed a bastardized version of the Maker’s teachings. But there was another teaching, carried across the oceans by its people, the Qunari.

Having lived a particularly remote life in Lothering, Bin had only ever met a single Qunari: he had been huge and grey-skinned, dreadlocked hair a stark white though he’d appeared not many years beyond Bin. He had supposedly murdered farmers and their children, torn them apart with his bare hands, but the few words he had exchanged with Bin had lent him the air of a lamb resigned to its fate.

What else he knew came from teachings: that once those beholden to the Qun had sought to conquer the entirety of Thedas and the wars against these horned devout had been many and bloody. Though the Qunari had, of late, settled into uneasy treaties with most of their neighbors, the sight of one of their ships, run aground and driven to near-splinters on the shores off Kirkwall, sent a shiver up Bin’s spine.

The prince came to stand beside him, one hand clamped casually upon his shoulder. “Growing up,” he said, as serenely as if he were commenting upon the weather, “I held a sort of fascination for the Qun. It was so alien, compared to our Chantry. I particularly enjoy their language and the customs they have.” He patted Bin’s shoulder and stepped away again. “So,” he said, head tilted in boyish curiosity, “Shall we go?”

Bin glanced to Jinwoo for support. The dwarf wore an uncertain frown. It melted away when he met Bin’s eyes, giving way to a smile that, while equally uncomfortable, offered some small measure of reassurance to Bin. “No choice, huh?” he asked.

The prince’s entrance into Kirkwall was a far simpler affair than Bin’s had been. All it took was a look at the man’s face, a glance at the fine clothing he wore beneath his traveling cloak, and the guards on duty were satisfied. To them, he was just another child of nobility run away from home and now returning to his parents after a jaunt out amongst the less-fortunate. Neither man on duty asked for some semblance of identity, and once they were safe behind the walls of Kirkwall, Jinwoo led the way to his house.

Along the way, the prince drew Bin into a word game, and when Bin inevitably lost, his laugh was as crisp and clear as a summer stream. His name was Myungjun, he said, but they were free to refer to him as MJ – it was what his closest companions had called him, and certainly they would all be friends now. Jinwoo had replied flatly that he knew not how the man had ever come to have actual friends, but it had been said with a warmth that thawed the bite of his words.

They at last arrived before Jinwoo’s house, made of the same stone that built up most of the Lowtown buildings. Like Bin’s, it was meant to hold a pair of inhabitants, but being nearer the heights of Hightown, there was an added sense of refinement. The interior, too, differed greatly from Bin’s: whereas he and his mother had only been able to accumulate a sparse collection of items within their home, Jinwoo’s was as if a whole host of men had only recently moved out. Gazing about, Bin could spy books and papers, blocks of wood lined up atop a table, some half-carved, some untouched. What surfaces one might use for sitting were equally covered, causing Bin to hover near the door, uncertain.

MJ showed no such qualms, striding toward the nearest wooden stool and shoving off the stack of books that had been piled atop it. When Jinwoo cried a protest, the prince only fixed him with an imperious gaze and said, “Oh, please, if you actually cared you’d take better care of them. Buy some bookshelves.”

“With what money?” Jinwoo retorted.

Bin could not keep the smile from spreading across his face, soft and hesitant, as he answered, “You get paid more than me. Where does it all go?”

“He’s stingy, isn’t he?” MJ asked.

“I am not!”

The light-hearted ribbing continued a few minutes more, and Bin found himself pleased that they had taken the runaway in. He suspected that Jinwoo felt the way – was perhaps even gladdened, despite how coldly he had acted earlier. And mayhap a roommate might be good for him.

Suddenly reminded of the suspicions his mother and he had always harbored, he turned to MJ when the dwarf had disappeared into the room MJ would take, focused on making it comfortable.

“Hmmm?” MJ hummed when Bin drew him close. “What is it?”

“Sometimes Jinwoo disappears for a bit. My mother suggested he has a lover, someone who occasionally confines him to the house so that they might have quality time together. You can find out if it’s true.”

MJ nodded his head through Bin’s explanation, his mouth curving into a half-smile when the possibility of a lover was brought up. “I see,” he said. Then abruptly he spun upon his heel. Faced toward Jinwoo, who was just returning from setting up the other bedroom, he said, “I have no qualms about forcing my way into your room to yell at you and your friend to shut up if I have to. I’ve done it before!”

“What!?” Jinwoo yelped. He immediately looked toward Bin for an explanation.

Feeling that perhaps he should beat a quick retreat, Bin raised his hand, saying, “I just told him you might have a secret lover,” so swiftly that the dwarf’s jaw was only just beginning to drop when Bin fled through the door, leaving MJ to deal with Jinwoo alone. He ran a short distance before he slowed back into a more leisurely stroll, certain that even if Jinwoo were to chase him, the dwarf would be unable to catch up.

Knowing it might earn him strange looks, he took time to rearrange his scarf, hiding the smile that had risen unbidden. He knew that such a short, absurd encounter should not have proven as funny as he found it. And yet his heart was unexpectedly light, the joy of it lending color to his face. Alone with his happiness, he briefly tipped his head back, allowing the cool air to wash over him.

The air smelled so fresh, so alive.

Though the rest of his journey home was uneventful, Bin found himself slowing as he neared his doorstep. Stood in the entranceway, looking into the house, stood a young woman he vaguely recognized as a neighbor. A few steps closer revealed his mother just inside their home, her face wearing an expression he recognized as concern.

He neared just in time to hear their farewells, and the young woman dipped her head in a small bow as she passed him, murmuring, “Excuse me, serah,” in a voice so weak it threatened to collapse.

“Mother?” he said as he came to the door. She stepped further into their home, allowing him access, and motioned for him to close the door once he was in. He did so, hand hesitating above the locks. Then, slowly, as if he had forgotten the gestures that had become so commonplace, he set them, the _clank_ of the chain against the stout wood of the door reassuring in the silence.

“Apparently her mother is missing,” Bin’s mother said when he had stepped away from the door.

“How long?” he asked. He did not think the girl’s mother the type to gallivant about, but he also knew little of the woman in truth. His mother had made friends with the woman and her daughter shortly after moving in – they were the ones with the nug, he remembered, the little hairless rat-like pig creature that was strangely endearing, if prone to high-pitched squeaking when excited.

“Only about a day or so,” his mother said. She tried to offer him a small smile, as if to assure him that perhaps it was not the worst possible outcome, but the furrow of her brow gave away her true feelings. “Have you heard anything, Bin?”

“No,” he answered. “I can ask Jinwoo to check through the mercenaries, though.” It was still too soon to approach the city guards. They were already spread too thin, and a single woman lost in Lowtown was little concern beside the squabbles of nobility.

“Please do,” his mother said. And the smile she offered now was stronger, more authentic, though it could not quite erase the tension that had begun to settle into her face.

Realizing he had to draw her mind away from all the terrible possibilities of the woman’s fate, Bin added, “Oh, but, Mother—you’ll never believe what Jinwoo and I found today.”

And so he explained to her the events that had occurred on the Wounded Coast. The missing woman was dropped in favor of the greater stories that loomed: the finding of the prince and the arrival of the Qunari.

The Qunari, in the days that followed, became the greatest piece of news throughout the city of Kirkwall, overtaking the refugees that continued to plague Kirkwall’s Gallows and coastline. Perhaps the most alarming piece of information was that they were led by the Arishok himself, the leader of those that followed the Qun.

Bin caught only a glimpse of the massive man, part of the crowd that joined to watch the viscount formally annex a section of the docks for the Qunari’s personal use, providing a compound where they might live in peace and keep their own rules as dictated by the Qun. The entire procession was peaceful, the human leader almost comically small compared to the oxman’s towering stature, the great sweep of his horns.

No one openly condemned the decision, because the contingent that followed the Arishok were all warriors, and the Free Marches were not desirous of a war.  “They’ll stay until the seas grow calm and a ship can be dispatched to carry them home,” Jinwoo said, having explained what bits and pieces of the arrangement he had picked up – words that Bin was not privy to, still considered a common sellsword, whereas Jinwoo was one of the partners that led the most prosperous of the mercenary groups in Kirkwall.

Bin did not give voice to his doubt, knowing Jinwoo would only try to further reassure him – even if the dwarf shared his feelings. MJ was not as concerned with the tension that permeated their discussion. Flippantly, as he dug through the last few scraps of his meal, he asked, “Is that what you think?” And he barked a laugh: the high, sharp sound of a fox.

The month crawled on slowly, the steady march from winter to spring accompanied by an event even more shocking than the Qunari’s arrival – though it was a close match-up, Jinwoo acknowledged. News of the Blight’s end came over from Ferelden, the Archdemon defeated within the country’s capital city, slain by a pair of wardens and the combined forces of dwarves, elves, and humans. Even the mages of the Ferelden Circle had been used in repelling the darkspawn army, and there were talks of annulling the Circle entirely: a proposition posed by the Hero and backed by the new king, a half-brother to the previous king Cailan.

In a matter of weeks, the men and women who had lived within the Gallows and along the Wounded Coast were headed home, carried by ships of all shapes and sizes.

But the woman who had gone missing was never found. And the templars, perhaps grown wary with news of the Ferelden Circle dispersed, grew increasingly hard on their charges.

The mercenary group was facing its own challenges. Ahren and Jinwoo clashed frequently over the direction it was headed. According to Jinwoo, Ahren wanted to expand into more illicit jobs – all underground, of course. Assassinations, kidnappings, contracts that would have aligned them with the likes of the Antivan Crows, who did anything for the right price. “It’s one thing to catch a murderer,” Jinwoo had snapped in a fit of frustration. “But the Crows will run a man through just because his daughter decided she wants her inheritance early.”

Bin did not quite share his friend’s morality. He had to take care of his mother, after all. And if that meant taking on jobs that others might recoil from – well, he could do that. She was the only family he had left, after all. But he also cared for the dwarf, who sometimes wound himself so tightly he seemed as if on the verge of tears. And he could see the clash between the two dwarves would soon reach a conclusion.

It just happened sooner than he expected.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aaa the response to this has been so amazing, thank you all so much!! i'll be replying to comments once i get this up ;;
> 
> the original outline for this chapter was about 1.5k words, and after writing i realized i'd only gone through about a quarter of the outline and i was already at 4K words, so i decided to split it haha. on the plus side the plot's finally arriving :') on the plus plus side, assuming i don't manage to drag the next chapter out, we finally get to see the second half of the ship next chapter :') (when the burn's so slow you write 18k words and still haven't introduced the other main character LMAO)


	4. Chapter IV

 

 

 

With the refugees returned to Ferelden, the banditry that had plagued the Wounded Coast ebbed away, dropping to levels more manageable for the city guard. This meant that the easy pay Jinwoo and Bin had come to rely on was gone, and the pair were forced to once more take riskier contracts.

Worse, perhaps, was that Ahren had begun to make contacts among the crowd that made up Darktown. It was a district unrecognized by the city officials, and it would certainly never appear on any map. Derelict and beholden to no true master, it was another remnant of the city’s slaver past: they had once mined there, burrowed down into the very roots of the city itself. From its depths had been drawn the very stones that built up the city. Now the only way inside was by waterways and the city’s sewage system, pathways that led into the hunting grounds for the worst of Kirkwall’s citizens.

It had been some few weeks since Ferelden’s new king was officially crowned, and now the trio sat around Jinwoo’s table. Bin drummed his fingers upon the wooden surface, dividing his attention between the dwarf and Myungjun. It was the prince who had called him here, having arrived at Bin’s door almost an hour earlier to squawk about how the dwarf was trying to kill him.

Having arrived at Jinwoo’s house, Bin had seen the truth of the matter: that the dwarf had thought to perhaps help disguise MJ, having mixed together a foul concoction that was meant to go upon MJ’s head. “It’s just dye,” he had said, with an air of aggrievance that said he and MJ had been arguing for some time over it.

“You’re trying to make me go bald,” MJ had shot back, hidden behind Bin. Still clutching onto Bin like a shield, he had added, “Being this handsome isn’t a crime, no matter what you think.”

Both Bin and Jinwoo had snorted at that, and the pair had shared a look. Jinwoo had eventually given up though, saying he had already wasted enough ingredients, and the paste was drying _yet again_.

Now, properly situated, Jinwoo worked at a small block of wood, scraping at it carefully with a small knife. It looked something like a dog, which made sense – early on in their friendship, Jinwoo had asked Bin if he had perhaps left a dog at home. A mabari, he had suggested. Bin had been forced to admit that he was allergic to dogs, not so greatly as to be life-threatening, but enough so that even a small companion animal was out of the question. And a mabari, taller than a wolf and corded over with muscles, possessed much more hair than a little terrier.

Myungjun, meanwhile, peppered Bin with questions. Most were easily answered, but when he asked, “Do you plan on returning?” Bin had to blink. He considered the question, aware of Jinwoo’s hand suddenly still over his carving.

“I don’t think we can,” he said at last. “Lothering was the first place destroyed after the darkspawn defeated the king’s army at Ostagar.” He had heard, second-hand, that the land was blighted, that it would take at least a decade before any life returned to the desolate ground. “And we don’t have the money to start over somewhere else.”

“If you really wanted to—” Jinwoo began.

Bin did not allow him to finish the sentence. “No, it’s fine.” He was not in the habit of cutting the dwarf off, had learned how to read when Jinwoo was finished speaking and when he was just gathering his thoughts. But the thought of being still further reliant upon the other, after all he had done for Bin and his mother, was not something Bin could stomach. He had his pride, after all.

Jinwoo shrugged his shoulders, willingly dismissed, and returned to his work.

“I heard another woman disappeared,” MJ said, when the conversation did not immediately return.

“Who?”

“I don’t know her name,” the prince said. He wiggled in his chair, stretching his arms up above his head as he continued, “Apparently she was a laundrywoman for some of the nobles in Hightown. I heard a bunch of them chirping about it, over by the Chantry.”

“You shouldn’t go into Hightown,” Jinwoo said, voice low. It was not quite a rebuke, but that was only because they had discovered that Myungjun was the type to dig in his heels if directly contradicted. “People might recognize you.”

“Maybe,” was MJ’s answer, so lax that Bin suddenly wondered if that was what the prince wanted.

Jinwoo seemed to realize pushing the prince further would reward nothing, for he turned his attention to Bin. “Make sure your mother is careful.”

“This is only the third one,” MJ interjected. His voice was still loose, devoid of any tension. “It could be they’re just running off.”

“My mother knew the first one,” Bin said. “We have her daughter over for dinner sometimes.” Of late, the girl had spoken of leaving Kirkwall and perhaps traveling south. With the reconstruction efforts in full force in Ferelden, added hands would be welcome. But Bin would miss her and the little nug she called Muffin. “She wouldn’t have abandoned her only flesh-and-blood.”

The second woman to go missing had disappeared in the shadows of Darktown. Bin could agree that her disappearance might well be the work of slavers, desirous of another body they could ship secretly to the Tevinter Imperium.

“Mayhap this laundrywoman was sleeping with one of their men, and they found out,” MJ suggested. There was a sharpness to the smile he flashed, but it only showed for a moment before he laughed hollowly and added, “It wouldn’t be the first time the nobility ruined someone’s life.”

Jinwoo hummed, a noncommittal answer that earned MJ’s immediate distaste. A pout pursed the man’s lips as he set to work on irritating the dwarf: first with small bumps against the table and then great, obvious slaps upon it that caused the wood to quake.

“I need to speak to Ahren,” Jinwoo said, sounding tired. He gave up on the wood carving, setting both it and the knife down upon the table so that he could sweep his hair back with one hand. He raised his eyes to meet Bin’s, saying, “Go home. I don’t like to think of your mother alone.”

Coming from anyone else, Bin might have been affronted. But he had long ago learned that the dwarf never meant offense with these remarks. He just worried for Bin’s mother, the way they all did – though perhaps MJ would not be so quick to admit he felt any great sympathy toward the woman.

“I’ll see you,” Bin answered. He pushed away and up from where he sat, then offered a small smile to MJ. The prince still seemed dissatisfied, but once Bin caught his eye, the crease eased from between his brows, and he offered a bright smile.

“Have a safe trip,” the prince quipped, so obviously exaggerated Bin always struggled to differentiate between his sarcasm and sincerity. “Send your mother my love.” That, Bin thought, was certainly sarcasm – though the sentiment suited someone like Myungjun.

“I will,” Bin answered with a small smile of his own.

They continued to exchange pleasantries, and Jinwoo followed Bin to the door. On its threshold, Bin turned back to look at him, a single eyebrow raised. “Like I said,” Jinwoo said. “Ahren.”

“Ah. Take care,” Bin said.

The pair walked together for a short distance and then Jinwoo turned away, headed up and into Hightown, while Bin descended further into Lowtown. The weather had warmed of late, but there was still a persistent breeze that flew in off the sea. Bin was glad to reach home and escape the wind that followed him like a stray.

He returned home to find his mother at work over a stew. It was slow-simmering, the few bits of meat adding a thickness to the scent that wafted throughout the house. Bin’s mouth watered to see it. In Lothering, meat was more readily available, if only because the townsfolk had often been forced to supplement their fields’ produce with game hunted in the nearby woods. But, in a sea-side city like Kirkwall, where the nearest forests were a greater distance away, meat was something of a rarity, reserved for the nobility who could afford the prices merchants brought from other countries.

“A couple more hours,” his mother said when he continued to hover near. She raised the wooden spoon she used to stir and added jokingly, “And don’t let me catch you trying to sneak a taste.”

Bin sighed, acknowledged his defeat, and retreated to his room. Even with the door closed, he could still smell the scent of the stew: it crept beneath the door, tickled tantalizingly at his nose. Doing his best to ignore it, Bin sat down with a book he had been slowly devouring over several weeks.

While he had been taught how to read and write, Lothering had been a veritable desert as far as books were concerned. What tomes he could find had all been Chantry-approved and too often focused on the fall of man or the sacrifice Andraste had made so that she might unite the people beneath the Maker. But Kirkwall was more varied in its available literature. Of late he had picked up a book that detailed the bawdy love affair between a hard-knocking bar maid and the young nobleman who had fallen in love with her no-nonsense attitude.

Whenever he left the house, Bin always made sure to hide the book beneath his mattress, for what the text lacked in scholarly prose it made up for with copious amounts of copulation. He dreaded the day his mother might discover it.

When his mother knocked at his door, he swiftly shoved it beneath his blanket, taking care to crumple the fabric upon itself. “Coming,” he answered, satisfied that she would not see its outline. But when he drew nearer the door, it suddenly swung open, his mother’s face appearing white and frightened in the doorway.

“Bin,” she said and abruptly stepped aside, revealing the man who stood behind her.

It was Myungjun, the prince breathing in short, sharp breaths. His hair curled in disarray above his head, one of Jinwoo’s traveling cloaks swung about his shoulders. He drew in another breath, and said without preamble, “They have him.”

Bin’s mother ushered the pair into the living room then retreated into the kitchen, returning momentarily with a water-filled glass. This she brought to MJ’s lips, taking care that he did not draw too deep a gulp – for he was clearly distressed, bereft of the cocky certitude that painted his typical mannerisms.

When he seemed more himself, he took a moment to swipe a hand through his hair, tugging the locks back into something more closely resembling the appearance he typically wore. Then, tongue dipping out to run along his lower lip, he said, “Jinwoo never came back. I didn’t think anything of it—sometimes he just leaves, you know.”

His lips quirked upward; it was mystery he too had become embroiled in: exactly where the dwarf went when he left the city. Even with MJ’s added companionship, Jinwoo still occasionally disappeared. But this was obviously different.

“They tried to pick the lock—failed,” MJ added, a touch of derision coloring his words. “So then they decided to just bust the blasted door down. I headed out through a window, but they were absolutely swarming the streets. Ended up climbing onto the roof and stayed high the whole way here.”

“But who are they?” Bin interjected.

“I was getting to that,” MJ said. “I hung around for a bit before I left. Apparently, their boss said I’d definitely be staying with him. One of them mentioned that I might be with you, instead.”

“Shit,” Bin hissed, at the same time MJ added, “You need to hide.”

It was too easy to imagine Ahren with eyes blinded by wealth. It was just as easy to picture Jinwoo, arguing with his business partner – except Bin had always heard dwarves were cutthroat when it came to money, and Jinwoo was too kind for his own good.

“Mother,” he said, turning to regard her. He meant to say they must flee. That they should run once more. And if they could not run then he would turn MJ in himself if only to protect the fragile peace he and his mother had finally achieved. Guilt bit at him, to even think it—but his mother was the only family he had left.

But instead of the frightened, meek woman he had expected, Bin instead discovered his mother was watching him with an expression of steel. She was done with running. “We’ll ask Red Jenny for help,” she said. “Son, get your sword.”

He could only watch, flummoxed, as she set about scooping some of the stew into a clay bowl she had set upon the table they typically supped at. When she cut her eyes toward him, Bin at last moved, back into his bedroom. There, he set to work strapping on some of his armor, tightening the strings that kept his wrist-guards in place, carefully adjusting the leather jerkin until it laid flat against his shirt. Then he returned to his mother, sword in hand.

MJ still stood where the pair had left him, his lip quirked up in a look that sat oddly upon his face. “Red Jenny?” he asked at last. “I thought they were a myth.”

“Mayhap in Starkhaven,” Bin’s mother answered. She had laid a chunk of bread across the bowl’s rim, so that the heat emanating off the stew might warm its underside. She led the two men to the door, and it was Bin who pulled it open, allowing her out into the night where she further explained, “But they’ve long been around in Ferelden. They don’t ask for much.” She took them down the alleyway, away from the main street, then followed a small branch that led still deeper into the tangled knot of backstreets.

“They don’t always do what you want, though,” Bin added.

The path they had followed widened now, spilling out into a small space where the backs of three houses butted up against each other. Red handprints cluttered around the darkened corners, hidden from all except those who knew what to search for. As his mother set the stew and bread down upon a barrel, MJ stepped nearer to Bin, the whites of his eyes bright in the gloom.

They stood there a minute, maybe more, the sword swung across Bin’s broad shoulders beginning to make its weight known. His mother retreated to their side, still looking calm.

It was MJ who broke the silence with a whispered, “How long do we have to wait?”

The answer came almost immediately, as if the woman who suddenly appeared from the shadows had waited all along for that question to be asked. She dropped from the roofs above, landing lightly upon her feet. She looked about Bin’s age, with a tumble of dark hair and sun-warmed skin. She moved with a grace Bin had only ever seen in predators, and her movements were deceptively slow as she strolled up to the offering his mother had left.

The Red Jenny offered the trio only a cursory look before she snatched up the bread, fingers as quick as an adder’s mouth.  They continued to watch quietly as she devoured first it and then the stew swiftly, Bin’s mother at last stepping forward when the girl tipped the bowl from her face with a satisfied smile.

“A good meal, serah,” she said. The words were as tree bark, rough and rumbling, and Bin thought he smelled pine in the space her voice left behind. “You’ve a boon to ask?”

“Yes,” Bin’s mother answered.

The girl tipped her head to the side, as if considering some unknown spectator’s invisible words, and said, “The Friends of Red Jenny don’t do what you want, you know. We do what _we_ want.”

And Bin knew this to be true, for he had heard tales of nobles provided their comeuppance, of servants flogged for indiscretions they did not commit. He had heard of the careful balance Red Jenny maintained, that neither those up high nor those down low were safe from the whims and whiles the Friends handed out.

“I know,” Bin’s mother said – and he took a step toward her, needing her to think carefully, be certain she wished to turn the Trickster’s eye upon them. But his steps stalled as the girl suddenly threw her head back and laughed.

“Brave,” she said. She smiled and added more gently, “But we’ll help you fairly. Your friend has helped ours, and I’ve no love for debts.”

“Then you know,” MJ said.

The girl raised her hand and tipped it, as if spilling out the answers they sought. “Aye,” she answered. “That bossman’s dogs have been crawling all over Lowtown. Even the guards don’t employ that sort of number.”

“Do you know where our friend is?” Bin asked. He thought it might be worth a shot, considering how informed this girl seemed.

“Not in Hightown,” she said. “But we’ll have the brats track him down. In the meantime, we’ll hide yours.”

“Thank you,” Bin’s mother said, and she dipped into a curtsy. Bin dropped into a bow with her, still unsure of how he felt about enlisting Red Jenny’s help. It was a stone set in motion, and he knew not what lay at the end of its path—but he also knew that if they were to save Jinwoo, it was rely on this woman or stumble along blindly. Or, leave his friend to the fate that awaited him.

“I hate you,” he muttered mutinously under his breath. The words were directed at Jinwoo but also himself—Jinwoo, for being too damn kind for his own good, himself because even if reason screamed at him to leave the dwarf for dead, he did not know if his heart could handle turning his back on a comrade a second time. The very thought of it left the taste of ashes in his mouth, the blaze of Ostagar reflected once more in his eyes.

Beside him MJ laughed, and Bin started to stutter out an apology. But the prince only further cackled, so like a jackal that Bin’s stomach rolled uneasily. Wearing a wicked smile, he answered, “Hate, love—it’s all the same.  Better than indifference, I think.”

“I didn’t mean you,” Bin said weakly.

“That’s fine,” MJ said. He tapped at his chin with his index finger, expression thoughtful. Then, as if he had reached a conclusion of some sort, he smiled and said, “Try not to save Jinwoo before I get back, Bin.”

They had been following the woman for some time, sticking to side roads and darkened alleys. But now, as they came upon a man-sized grate, Myungjun turned away and was off—so quickly that Bin could only watch as the prince easily scaled the wall of a house, leveraging his foot against the small lip of a shuttered window before he sprung upward, caught hold of the roof’s rim, and swung himself gracefully atop it. In the darkness that had come over Kirkwall, he stood briefly illuminated by the weak moonlight—then he dropped down, out of sight, and Bin saw no more of him.

“Smart boy,” came the Red Jenny’s voice, and Bin turned back to watch her. She ran her fingers along the edges of the metal grid, tongue poking out from between her lips. Then, with a satisfied sound, she popped the lip up, just enough that she might wedge her foot beneath and properly lever it. Then, catching hold of the raised bars, she pushed the grate off the cavity it covered, revealing what had once been a drainage hole for sewage.   “Doubt he wanted to crawl through old gutter water, even if its nothing but rain that drains these days.”

“Is that what we’ll be doing?” Bin asked. 

“Something like that,” the Red Jenny answered.  She tugged the grate still further away and gestured with her chin. A closer inspection revealed something like a ladder and, at the very bottom, the faint glow of light. “Down you go, serah.”

Bin went first, his sword haphazardly tied to his back so that he might grip the rungs that jutted out from the tunnel’s wall. They were damp and slippery in places, and a few times he had to brace his back against the wall behind him, reliant on the sheer size of his form to keep him from falling. But eventually he made his way down and called up for his mother to follow. “Careful,” he told her.  “The fourth one especially.”

With the knowledge he provided, his mother had an easier time, and the Red Jenny followed last of all, contorting her body in such a way that she was able to slide the grate back into place above her before she dropped down, landing with a looseness that spread the force of impact throughout her body. Bin had only seen such flexibility in one of the army’s scouts—and that man had only ever freefallen from trees, catching branches on the way down so that his impact was dampened.  He could not help but raise an eyebrow at her as she passed by, impressed.

“Not bad for a gutter rat, huh?” She grinned as she asked it, then moved a board from where it leaned against one of the passage’s walls, revealing a trio of lanterns. Only one was lit, its flame barely a flicker, and it was this one that the girl took. She briefly added oil, the flame gaining strength, and returned the board to its position, hiding the others once more.

“It’s all Darktown,” she explained as they walked. The sewer they traveled branched off in numerous directions, but the Red Jenny took them toward the sea, the tunnel naturally descending the further they went. “But some is new and some is old—we like the old.”

The further they went, the more Bin became convinced it was not that the passages were old that kept others from taking up residence near the Red Jenny and her friends. It was the _smell_. Day-old fish, sun-baked and brine-basted—so overpowering that Bin’s eyes watered. His mother, too, took obvious note of the stench, for she stuck to the girl’s hip where the acrid bite of smoke and flame worked together to cover up the smell of the sea. Bin stayed behind them, though he could barely breathe through his nose, not willing to leave their backs exposed.

Eventually they came upon a gate, its bars rusted away to reveal a gap large enough that they might step through. And then they were upon a small dock of sorts, the sea itself lapping greedily at the concrete slab that slanted down into its depths. It was something of a cove, though a number of ramshackle buildings had been built nearby, each one stripped of paint or finery, showing only the appearance of weathered and half-rotted wood.

“Leads into Darktown proper,” the Red Jenny told them. Another structure, sheltered by the black cliffs, stood in better condition, though it too was crude in its make. It was to this building that the Jenny led them, and Bin recognized it as a sort of warehouse. Or at least, that was what it had been, once upon a time.

Stepping inside, Bin found it had been converted into a kind of living quarters. Most of the space was open, but in the back Bin could see cobbled-together partitions, set up to make a handful of private rooms. Most of the floor was occupied with bundles of bedding, small resting areas set up around cooking pots or firepits. A few clotheslines were also strung, an assortment of garments both rich and poor hanging from each.

Despite the obvious signs of living, there were only a few small bodies clustered around a cooking pot—and all their heads raised as one when the Jenny stepped inside, Bin and his mother in her wake. Most were young—children and teenagers, none of them old enough to be without parents, and they all seemed to shrink back upon realizing two strangers had invaded their home. The only one that stood up, patting one small boy upon his head, was a young man, around Bin’s age or slightly younger.

He made his way over to them, weaving through the piles of blankets with sure, easy steps. The nearer he drew, the better Bin was able to see him—and he saw that the man, for all his careless grace, was as wary as any of the children he had left behind. But then again, Bin had half a head on him and a body built on strength. In comparison, this man was wiry and lean, likely possessed of the same agility the Red Jenny had shown.

Bin did not reach for his sword, though he would have liked to, with those fierce eyes leveled upon him.

Then the man turned to the Red Jenny and said, so quietly it took Bin a second to register he had spoken, “Myra?”

“Get the brats ready,” she answered. “We need to find a dwarf.”

The man tilted his head.

“We’re keeping these two here for a span,” the Red Jenny—Myra—said when he still had not moved. “But their dwarf was taken. The nice one, the one the brats like? They’ll know.”

 _He’ll argue,_ Bin thought. The man’s posture was stiff, his expression carefully blank. Bin had seen the same look before, had worn it himself when he thought to argue against his mother or Jinwoo. But, surprisingly, the man only nodded his assent after a moment of hesitation, spinning on his heel and heading back to the children who watched.

“We’ll keep you here,” Myra said, once more focused on Bin and his mother. “Once we find your dwarf friend—”

“Jinwoo,” Bin interjected.

“—Jinwoo, we’ll bring him back here. I’m sure there’s a boat around here you can use—just to get you out to the Wounded Coast. From there….” Myra shrugged. “That’ll be on you.”

The children, having been informed of their task, began to file out of the warehouse. Most hurried past Bin and his mother, but one small girl stopped and curtsied. She made a strange sight, being but eight or nine and wearing a pair of split breeches fastened by a cotton rope and a tunic at least one size too large for her—but there was also something strangely charming in the way she practiced her manners so diligently, and Bin offered her a small smile and a bow of his own. She must have liked what she saw on his face, for she giggled and ducked her head shyly before chasing after her companions.

Last of them came the young man. He offered Myra a brief farewell and left, only once glancing over his shoulder to meet Bin’s eyes before he shut the door behind him. Bin and his mother were left standing beside Myra.

“I’d offer a meal,” she said, wearing a crooked grin, “but I doubt you’ve any taste for rat. Very greasy meat.”

“We ate squirrel where we lived before,” Bin’s mother answered with a smile of her own. “But,” she continued, eyes roving once more over the piles of bedding, the cooking pots set up between them, “I wouldn’t want to take your food. We can wait.”

Myra snorted. “Niceties are for our betters, serah. If you’re hungry, then eat. I’m sure at least one of the bratlings sneaked a few potatoes.”

“She has a point,” Bin said, so softly that for a moment he worried his mother had not heard him. But when her gaze settled on him, questioning, he continued, “If there’s a fight, if we have to flee tonight—isn’t it better if we prepare ourselves?” He had already accepted that they must flee once more. But that they had a veritable army out searching for Jinwoo had kindled within him a desire to save the dwarf.

After all, had Jinwoo not saved them, when they first came ashore in the Gallows of Kirkwall?

It took a few more words from Bin, but eventually his mother joined him at one of the pots, kneeling down to scoop through the soup that simmered within. Together they ate: a bowl of soup that derived its flavor mostly from potatoes, as Myra had said—but there were other vegetables, a few pieces of gristle that added some taste and texture if not true substance.

Bin allowed himself to eat only enough to keep his strength up. While he would have liked nothing better to have devoured the entire pot’s worth, he knew his stomach would rebel later if he filled it entirely. So what he did not eat, he passed to his mother, who shot him a worried look but otherwise held her tongue.

The two finished swiftly. Bin’s mother settled down upon a wrinkled and threadbare blanket after another moment’s hesitation. Bin stood next to Myra, focused on how she went about polishing a pair of daggers she kept on her person. He was attempting to discover where she sheathed them when not in use when the door swung open once more.

Almost immediately Myra’s dagger was readied, hand gripping it in such a way that she could easily throw it. And, in the brief moment that Bin registered her movement, he wondered if this was simply a way of life for them: always ready to fight, even within their home.

But then the door opened fully, and the young man from before and a smaller boy at his side spilled through the threshold. Myra’s hand dropped, neatly hiding the dagger from view.

“News?” she asked them.

“On the docks, I found him!” the little boy said, already hurrying to Myra. He nearly tripped and fell over a bundle of bedding, but the young man swiftly caught him, easily lifting him up and over the obstacle before setting him loose again.

“Easy,” the man said, even as the boy squeaked out, “Thanks, Rocky!”

“He’s in a warehouse, I showed him,” the boy continued, jabbing his finger in Rocky’s direction.

Myra offered him a smile and a booming, “Good job!” Then she turned to Rocky, asking, “I’m guessing there are guards?”

“Or I’d have brought him,” the man agreed.

“I’ll get him,” Bin said. “He’s my friend,” he added, when Rocky turned toward him, a neutral expression on the man’s face—and yet the lack of emotion rankled Bin.

“With that?” the man asked, pointing toward the sword Bin carried. “The building’s in use. It’s a maze of crates. There’s no space to swing something that big.”

“Then I’ll use my fists,” Bin said. He did not know why he was so vehement that he would be the one to rescue Jinwoo. But perhaps he had an inkling—mayhap this desire rose not from his friendship with the dwarf, but from the bond he had fostered with his group in Ostagar. And though he realized he was being unreasonable, he set his jaw and squared himself, taking command of every hand of height he possessed. It had not quite been a year, not yet, but that final image of his captain’s face struck deep.

He would not allow that short farewell he and Jinwoo had exchanged be the last he ever saw of the dwarf.

“Don’t fight,” Myra said. Bin had not realized that he and Rocky had continued to stare at each other until the man abruptly blinked and swung his eyes toward Myra. His expression softened, some of the hardness bleeding from his mouth.

“We’ll all go and get your dwarf,” she said. “Right now.” And then, turning toward Bin’s mother, she began to say, “Serah—” only to be cut off as the older woman made her way to their side.

“You’re not just making me sit here,” Bin’s mother answered. Bin looked toward her, startled, but otherwise kept his mouth closed. She wore a stony expression, mouth set in a determined line. Once upon a time, she had laughed and said Bin’s own inflexibility came from her. “You’d think we were dwarves,” she had said back then, “for how unyielding our wills are.”

Now she said, “If Jinwoo is hurt, he’ll need someone to look over his wounds.” Bin did not know if her midwifery would suitably prepare her for wounds garnered through battle and perhaps torture—but she was a resourceful woman, and more than once she had smeared some foul-scented paste upon his own injuries. A quick glance at the two rogues showed neither could contradict her words.

At last Myra lifted her eyebrow and said, “Well, I won’t argue,” before turning toward the little boy that had returned with Rocky. She dropped down into a crouch, expression growing solemn. “Bo,” she said, “Find the others, tell them to come back here. We’ve found what we want. Copper’s in charge until we get back, y’hear?”

The little boy nodded in assent. She smiled and petted his head then rose to her feet. “Shall we?” she asked.

The moon sat high in the sky, its brilliant shine an eerie reminder of the night Bin had seen his previous life come to an end. He tried to shake off the sense of it, reminding himself that the city was not a fortress awash in blood, that flames did not claw the sky, that the shrieks of dying men did not pierce the air. But he could not so easily believe his words, and at last he directed his mind away from the memories, ushering them back into the dark lands that lived beyond his self-imposed wall.

Rocky cut through Lowtown with a swiftness that Bin envied, his steps those of one who has lived a lifetime in the same place and was capable of navigating it even blinded and deafened. Bin followed, his mother tucked in behind him, with Myra bringing up the rear. They gave the Qunari compound a wide berth, Rocky throwing the few sentries they saw a wary look. In the darkness, the oxmen were as great, stone statues. Then they were upon the docks proper, and the rogue refocused on the task at hand, picking the lock of a squat, two-storied building that smelt strongly of disuse: a musty, stale scent that clung to the air.

He led them upstairs, only once looking back to bring his finger to his lips in a gesture that requested silence. They came into a room from which a balcony jutted—and Bin could only imagine it had once been a noble’s retreat, a place where he or she might look out upon the sprawling piers and watch the slaves brought ashore, take note of what haul the fishers had brought back. But now it faced a warehouse, the two buildings so close together that Bin thought he might be able to stretch across the small gap that separated them.

And apparently that was Rocky’s plan, for the young man turned back to Bin and jerked his head, hissing, “Be quiet as you cross. It’s this one.” Then he stepped past Bin, his voice gentling as he repeated the command to Bin’s mother, adding softly, “Don’t worry, I’ll help you.”

Even with the warehouse but a hand’s span away, Bin found himself climbing carefully onto the railing that encircled their balcony, momentarily hesitant as he bore his weight upon the wood—but it held surprisingly well and so he was able to climb atop the warehouse’s roof, taking note of the small indent that ran just behind the eaves: a way to ferry away rain, though he doubted standing water could bring such a stout building down. 

Fully upon the roof, he now could see the small hatch that undoubtedly led down into the building proper. He spared it only a glance before returning his attention to the path he had just traversed. With Rocky’s assistant, he was able to pull his mother up alongside him, and they both stepped back as Myra and Rocky came, the rogues traversing the gap so easily Bin wondered if they had simply stepped upon the air.

“I saw three men guarding him,” Rocky said as they gathered about the hatch. Bin’s mother hung back a few steps, for it was understood that she would enter last.

“One for each of us,” Myra said, giving voice to Bin’s own thoughts. She offered Bin a bright smile, though it dampened somewhat when she turned toward Rocky, the man regarding her with a look that was—skeptical, Bin thought. Skeptical and wary and anxious—but unwilling to give voice to such words, for in the end he only dipped his head in quiet agreement and licked at his lips, resettling himself in the crouched position he had taken up.

“Here,” he said instead—and suddenly there was a knife thrust beneath Bin’s nose, so near that he reflexively pulled away. But Rocky only held the weapon out, offering it to him. “No room for that sword.”

Bin took it, hesitantly, only after Rocky had said, “I have more.” The hilt of it was simply made, the grip an unkind and shoddily-worked leather. Compared to his own sword, it was obvious that this was a dagger meant to be thrown away as needed: cheap to make and cheap to replace. But, he thought ruefully, it made a certain sort of sense. He could only imagine that swordsmiths would more readily chase a thief that had taken their most precious of blades versus those that stole their subpar works.

“Thanks,” he said. He tucked the dagger into his belt, so that only the hilt would be visible.

Rocky eased open the hatch with a practiced hand, not so swiftly that it would shriek but not so slowly that its hingsd would creak. Beneath their eyes was revealed an old ladder, leant against the second floor’s wall, what appeared to be a rather large sack of meal set against its feet so that it would not skid away beneath a person’s weight.  What light there was came a dim, creeping thing; but this was to be expected, for Rocky had warned that the second floor was but a catwalk where excess goods went and that the warehouse was shaped to emphasize the ground level and take full advantage of the space provided. Thus, what lanterns were lit, what light they provided, all originated from the bottom floor.

They descended swiftly but silently, Bin only glancing up once to meet his mother’s worried face. He offered her a small smile and stepped from the ladder, turning toward Rocky for further instruction.

Almost immediately he saw the set of stairs that led up onto the second floor, cramped and shoved into a corner. Opposite, in the place where the lamplight was strongest, three lanterns blazing with bright, hungry flames, Bin saw three figures, with a fourth collapsed up against the wall.

The sight kindled something that had long been dormant, even as the sharp scent of oil struck his nose. It was something like anger—but whereas his rage ran cold, this was a hot flush that flooded his veins. The longer he stared, the more this old sensation awakened, for he _knew_ the men. Sellswords, as he was, men of the company, as he was; but they were also men Jinwoo had personally recruited, and _how_ _dare they_.  

It was one thing to know Jinwoo had been taken. It was another to see him trapped by men that had once been brothers-in-arms.

Bin sunk down onto his haunches, dropping so that he might crawl nearer the overlook’s edge and look below without being spotted. He was aware of Rocky watchinghim—but he kept his gaze focused on the three men that held his friend captive, and at last Rocky turned away, drawing forth a small dagger whose blade had been sharpened down to a brittle point.

Then, as they had planned, the rogue threw it. It sailed silently threw the air, flipping over itself and almost immediately disappearing into the gloom where the light did not penetrate. And then it landed, skittering, on the far side of the warehouse. All three of the sellswords that kept watch over Jinwoo startled, tension sparking up their bodies. At last one was sent forward, slow and carefully, carrying one of the three lamps with him, his shortsword drawn and raised to ward off any attackers from the darkness.

They watched him, Bin’s blood beginning to bay, the electricity that crackled just beneath his skin growing more and more erratic.

Rocky leapt, tucking into a roll at the last moment so that he rose behind the man that had separated himself, a dagger gripped in one hand, already arcing to pierce the mercenary’s back before he could begin to turn. But Bin did not see beyond that, for Rocky’s appearance caused the two remaining mercenaries to rush forward, to kill the newly-appeared rogue if not help their friend.

Now it was Bin and Myra who dropped, the crate Bin landed on buckling beneath his weight but not cracking. He swung erratically with the knife he had been given at the man nearest him, hissing frustration when it fell painfully short.

With the element of surprise lost, he was forced to dodge backward when the man came at him with shortsword bared, using the crates and sacks and containers that stood stacked about them as cover against the oncoming blows.

Forced to improvise—for certainly his knife could not outdistance a sword—he threw the dagger at the man, chasing after it. The man clumsily ducked to the side with a shout, curling in upon himself—and then Bin was upon him, one hand catching the man’s sword arm in an iron grip while the other pounded at his head. When the man fell off-balance beneath his blows, Bin wrenched at the man’s wrist, forcing him to drop the sword and slamming him back and into a sturdy box in a single movement. Uselessly the man’s free hand clawed at his face, and when his fingers came too near Bin’s mouth, he bit down upon the fleshy finger that found its way into his mouth, tearing with such savagery that the digit made a horrible cracking sound.

The mercenary yelled again—and then his words abruptly bubbled, fluid rapidly filling his voice. Bin released the man, opened his eyes (for he had shut them against the man’s desperate flailing motions), and saw that Myra had slit the man’s throat.

Bin held him until he died, not in kindness but from contempt, remembering when they had once exchanged drinks. He did not think he had ever liked this man—and he found that the fires within him had been banked, drawn back down into manageable flames that licked his insides with a comforting warmth.

Myra said something to him—something wry and joking—and he replied in kind. But it was as if the words did not belong to him, for he had never fought a person so brutally; or, at least, he had never fought a _man_ in such a way, for the darkspawn had always been monsters in his mind even if they had once been men. And the aftermath found him faintly numb, so that the conversation he held with Myra was but ashes, and whatever they said was scattered and gone by morning.

He returned to himself somewhat when she mentioned Jinwoo. Abruptly he turned from her, only remembering to pick up Rocky’s dagger as he hurried to his friend’s side.

The dwarf was bound with ropes, a cloth piece stuffed into his mouth. Rocky had already begun to saw at his bindings, starting with the clumsily-done knot that had chafed his wrists an angry red. Jinwoo was watching him with wearied eyes but some light returned to them as Bin drew near, as Bin dropped down onto his knees so that he might look the dwarf over better, breathing in the sharp scent of sweat—but very little blood, and he offered Jinwoo a pleased smile, some of the frost that had incased his heart falling away to see his friend whole if not fully hale.

Not to say his friend had escaped his predicament unscathed. In addition to the welts raised beneath the coarse rope ties, the dwarf’s handsome face had been marred by a hideous black eye, his lip split and crusted over with dried blood—and worst of all was that he did not breathe evenly, his body held in such a way that Bin thought it was perhaps a bruised rib, if not a full break: he had seen it before, when a friend in Lothering had provoked a horse’s ire and received a shoe-shod kick in retaliation.

But there was nothing life-threatening and when Rocky had done away with the last of the bindings, Bin carefully wrapped himself around Jinwoo in an embrace that took account of the dwarf’s wounds. He rested his chin briefly on the man’s shoulder, felt Jinwoo’s gentle breaths beneath his own, and knew that some piece of his heart had slatted back into place.

“I’m so happy you’re all right,” he murmured at last, earning a rumbling chuckle from Jinwoo that hitched to a stop abruptly as he disturbed his rib again.

“For a definition of all right,” Jinwoo agreed.

“Bin,” came a voice from behind him, and Bin raised his head from his friend’s shoulder. He turned to find his mother watching them, not quite willing to intrude upon their reunion, but obviously desirous to see the extent of Jinwoo’s wounds.

“ _Bin_ ,” Jinwoo echoed, his voice far more reproachful, even burdened by pain. It was but a single word, and yet Bin found himself scooting away from his friend, looking elsewhere. Its message was quite clear: _Bin, why is your mother here in this dangerous situation?_ And he did not have an answer to that, because he _had_ tried to keep his mother from coming along.

He turned toward Rocky, rising to his feet, fishing out the dagger Rocky had lent him earlier. He very pointedly ignored Jinwoo’s stare, even if he felt it pricking at his back, sharp as tiny knives. “Here,” he said. “Thank you for lending me it.”

His words were stilted and awkward—and he blamed this on Jinwoo, for only the dwarf could have made him react so gladly, and only the _damn dwarf_ would immediately reproach him after getting rescued for having the audacity to bring his mother along.

 _You’d be yelling at me if I’d left her behind too,_ he thought.

Rocky took the dagger from him, but his eyes were focused elsewhere—up and above—toward the catwalk where they had previously skulked before they’d killed the men. And Myra was watching with him, her eyes half-moons in the flickering lamplight. But then she smiled and said, “Oh, look who decided to join the party.”

“Fashionably late,” came an answer from above—and Bin heard Jinwoo sigh—before Myungjun dropped down into view. Like the Red Jennies—assuming Rocky _was_ one, Bin was not certain how it worked—his descent was graceful, as carefree as a leaf fluttering in the air. He landed gently upon a stack of boxes and stepped down onto a smaller set and then dropped to the ground itself, stepping nearer with a bright grin that drew a small answering smile from Bin.

“See you found the dwarf,” MJ added, his high spirits coloring every gesture and expression he made. He peeked around Bin’s mother, offered Jinwoo a little wave, and giggled when Jinwoo muttered, “Oh, go away.”

“That’s incredibly rude,” MJ said. “I’m incredibly hurt.”

“Incredible,” Jinwoo said, and Bin could see that he had closed his eyes. But when Bin’s mother stood up, evidently finished with her examination, he cracked open one eye and said, “Please tell me it’s nothing serious.”

“It isn’t,” Bin’s mother said readily. She offered a hand to Jinwoo adding, “But we do need to get you up and moving. And cough if you need to, even if it hurts—we don’t want fluid building in your lungs.” Immediately Bin hurried to her side, reaching out a hand to also help his friend up.

MJ stayed where he was, hands settled upon his hips as he watched the pair tug Jinwoo to his feet, Bin lending himself as a pillar for Jinwoo to stabilize against as he worked the stiffness from his body. “You’re really ugly,” he said, and Jinwoo answered, “Last time I ever protect _you_.”

“I mean what they did to you,” Myungjun corrected himself, not sounding apologetic at all. He looked to Bin’s mother and added, “Should we invest in a steak? A big chunk of raw meat so his face stops looking like… _that_?”

“We need to run,” Bin answered. And he looked toward the pair of thieves that had watched the reunion quietly—Myra wearing a small smile and Rocky expressionless, as if he would have rather been anywhere else.

Myra said, “We can provide you at least a day of shelter. Mayhap two if you’d be willing to care for yourselves.  But we won’t risk our necks for yours—if that group comes knocking, it’s your own hides.”

“It’s fine,” MJ said. He had apparently decided to make himself useful, for he gently ushered Bin’s mother away from the dwarf’s other side, taking up her position there. “God, lose some weight,” he told the dwarf suddenly, and then continued as if he had said nothing of the sort, “That mercenary group won’t bother us anymore. Or anyone, really. But you two are out of jobs.” And he laughed again, flashing his teeth.

“Did you set the building on fire?” Bin asked. The absurdity of committing arson in Hightown was somewhat less absurd when Myungjun had returned to them as giddy as a drunk loon. A more horrifying thought was that he had set the entirety of Kirkwall on fire—never mind that burning a city built on stone was almost impossible.

“No,” MJ said. Though further prompted, it was all he would offer.

Their return journey was a slow affair, and it was reluctantly decided that they would take Jinwoo back to Bin’s house. Though he had recovered some of his vitality, the six or so hours he had suffered captive had not been kind, and they had only just crested the first of three sets of stairs they would have to climb when his head began to droop. His bruised ribs—though they were possibly cracked, Bin’s mother could not say for certain—did little to assist him, and his breathing occasionally grew rough and panting.

They moved swifter when Myungjun finally removed himself from Jinwoo’s side, allowing Rocky to take his place. He was, as Bin had suspected, basically one long muscle, and so he was able to bear Jinwoo’s weight better than the prince had. And, free from his job of having to help Jinwoo limp along, MJ was free to scout ahead while Myra brought up their rear.

The night grew old, and they reached Bin’s home just as pink streaks of the encroaching dawn began to creep across the sky, the stars above slowly guttering out one by one. By now Bin’s stomach had begun to protest terribly against the meager supper it had been served so many hours before, and his eyes hurt with lack of sleep. So his response was muted when Myra and Rocky chose to bid farewell. Between the pair, Myra was the friendlier, though there was something like a coyote’s yip to her voice as she said, “Consider our debt repaid. At least until Serah Dwarf so chooses to grace us with a few coppers once more.” Rocky only offered a short farewell, a nod of his head—and then the pair departed, and it was just the four of them once more: Bin and his mother and Jinwoo and Myungjun, who had lost some of his earlier energy and was more subdued in his jubilation.

Once inside, Jinwoo was set to bed upon Bin’s pallet, the dwarf’s mottled face finally releasing the tension it had held since they first found him as sleep crept across his features. Bin, his mother, and MJ shared a loaf of bread, Bin’s chunk disappearing in a few famished bites while his mother ate hers more slowly and the prince only nibbled on his, drowsiness having finally caught him.

When they had finished, Bin’s mother brought forth a number of blankets, dividing them equally between Bin and MJ—and then she disappeared into her own room, promising to return once she had taken a well-earned nap. For his part, MJ created a sort of nest, reminding Bin of squirrels that burrowed. He fell asleep curled up upon himself, his knees drawn to his chest and spine bent at an angle Bin thought must be uncomfortable. Bin bedded down only after he had acquired MJ’s leftovers, chewing thoughtfully on the tough hunks. He knew he should be more aware, that he should be fighting against his fatigue and not further feeding it.

But he had also learned to trust Myungjun, just a little, in the short time they had known each other—and the prince had seemed _so proud_ of himself. So, when Bin did finally settle down to sleep, it was not with any great sense of guilt—only the knowledge that his family was back together and thus the world had righted itself.

He awoke some few hours later—drawn out of his slumber not by some great pounding upon the door, but by the gentle creep of sunshine that stuck golden fingers beneath the frame, casting a hazy glow upon the darkened room. It was this and the insistent need for water—as well as the pressing urgency of his bladder—that brought Bin crawling from the pile of blankets and up onto his knees and then onto his feet.

His eyes were but slits as he set about the tasks his mind drowsily assigned. First caring for his own needs, then checking upon Jinwoo—and the dwarf lay as they had left him, his breathing easier than it had been the night before and the bruises upon his face having faded to a sickly blue that was still an improvement upon the near-black they had been. Bin headed outside with a water bucket in hand, briefly stopping in the doorway to squeeze his eyes shut tight against the sunlight that suddenly assaulted him. But he worked through the temporary blindness and at last headed toward the communal well.

The city of Kirkwall had come alive in the few hours he had slept—his short walk passed by many an open shop, many a stall hawker, many a man or woman who ambled by carrying their own business. But only a few offered him a glance, despite the fact he had not bathed in some time and had gone through sewers in the interim—it was not possible for ordinary folk to keep as clean as the nobles of Hightown and that he carried a pail with which to fetch water gave the impression that he would soon clean himself.

The well itself was already being frequented by several women, some younger men of Bin’s age mixed in among them. Most were laundrywomen, individuals hired by the noble houses—but some too were just there for their own families, or like Bin, were there to fetch a pail for bathing or cleaning or cooking.

Bin settled in to await his turn, still blinking against the fatigue that clung to his body, as persistent as sticky cobwebs and of a much heavier composition. He had found in his journey that something like a headache had also begun to form, and he thought this was likely from lack of sleep and perhaps a touch of dehydration. It would ease with rest, he thought. Or one of his mother’s many tinctures, mayhaps the one that held a trace of poppy. But he was not allowed to withdraw fully into his head, for the gossip of the day was always best discussed amongst a crowd, and the small gathering at the well certainly counted as one.

“I heard it was embezzlement,” someone said, and he abruptly returned to himself, eyes opening a fraction wider as he took in the speaker’s form—a laundrywoman, as he had suspected, for only they dressed so nicely for the lords and ladies of Hightown. Those who worked in Lowtown knew such finery was a waste to wear, especially for the simple act of gathering and washing clothes.

Another, more sensibly dressed, woman answered back, “ _I_ heard it was treason—straight from my son-in-law’s mouth. I’ve told you about him—a guard. He might make captain in a few years.” And there was a smattering of laughter at that, for it was an unspoken opinion that the city guard was but a pet of the many nobles—and if he did rise in ranks, it was only because he had been judged a suitable dog.

A young man cut in now, speaking from where he had been slowly drawing forth the now-full water bucket from the well’s lip. “Can’t have been treason—or we’d have been given a show.”

“No execution,” another agreed, and a second voice added, “If you want a show, just check the Gallows. Those templars are looking for any excuse to kill a mage.”

A tittering broke out, and someone asked, in the careless manner only one who believes themselves unaffected could adopt, “But it’s what they deserve, certainly? They’re lucky they’re only made Tranquil.”

“Ask Ferelden,” someone else answered. The speaker, a man who came only up to Bin’s chest and stooped still lower, offered his audience a grim smile. “ _They’ve_ decided mages are just like you an’ me.” And he snorted, as if the very idea were ridiculous, before adding, “Not surprised though. That Hero of theirs is some mage, right? Bet they threatened to make the king’s knob fall off if he didn’t break their Circle.”

“Can you even imagine?” This voice, breathless with the very _scandal_ of it, made Bin scratch at his neck, an itch suddenly making itself known just below his jaw.  He knew that these people, and certainly himself, had no true right to address how Ferelden handled its mages. And if the Hero was a mage, then certainly it only made sense that they turn to the Hero’s people and offer them succor.

But he allowed himself only a moment to consider the stark differences in how Ferelden and Kirkwall treated their mages. He was more interested in the treason that had been spoken of, and he left the line he had patiently waited in to find the washerwoman who had mentioned her guard son.

“Excuse me,” he said, voice cracking. He swallowed and flashed a bashful smile, then said more strongly, “I’m sorry, but what were you speaking of? With regards to someone committing treason?”

The older woman smiled, seemingly eager to have found a willing audience and caught hold of his arm, her fingers cold and pinching as she drew him nearer. “You haven’t heard, son?” He shook his head, and she held onto him more firmly, her voice dropping. “Oh, but you should see once you’ve done your chores! That big mercenary company, the one run by a pair of dwarves, I think it was—they were sacked this morning. Apparently, the entire guard stormed their headquarters. My son-in-law said it was treason, that they was plotting against the Viscount—but my _daughter_ heard that the man in charge was against the Chantry. They arrested ‘em all, all except one of the head dwarves—he was the one that turned them in.”

 _MJ_. The name flashed across his mind, solidifying in an image of the prince—practically capering alongside them last night. And he allowed himself a thought of the Black Fox—but that man was a myth passed from decades bordering upon centuries ago, and he had been a poor wretch who assisted his folk by stealing from the nobility and in turn mocking their misfortune. He did not allow his thoughts to show on his face, offering the woman another bashful smile, bordering upon uncomfortable for he did not wish to _shake_ her off, but her grip was tight—and carefully raised his bucket with his free hand.

“Oh, I’ll definitely look,” he told her. “But first—my mother—." And he hoisted his pail higher, hopeful she might spin a tale of her own and set him free.

“What a good lad,” she told him. Her grip loosened, until it was only her palm laid atop his arm, and she patted him a few times, adding fussily, “Oh, if only my own were as kind as you. Especially that wretched boy my daughter married.” She released him then, but added, “Good fortune to you and yours, son; tell your mother she’s done good, to have such a helpful boy.”

His return journey was swift even as the gossip from the night before began to blossom around him. There had been a murder on the docks, a job gone bad—and there had been that huge company dismantled in a matter of minutes by the guard. And what _joy_ that the city guard took such a vested interest in the health of its leaders, perhaps one day it might spare a thought for those that lived below? And so on and so forth the words went, buzzing above Bin’s head like a great, gathering cloud of flies, eager to feast upon whatever carcass had been cast down.  

He returned to find both his mother and Myungjun awake. His mother had made a porridge for Jinwoo, while the prince nibbled at a crumbly piece of cheese, having already devoured what looked like a bit of sausage and another chunk of bread. Bin scavenged what he could from their pantries, taking what remained of the loaf into his mouth as well as another link of sausage and a bit of the porridge as well. At his mother’s request he divvied out the bucket of water he had fetched and once more left the house to bring back more.

This made up the bulk of his morning, this monotonous back and forth, and so he only caught glimpses of what the others did in his house.

His mother, as he had suspected she would, set immediately to work on grinding down some of the faded, dried elfroot she kept stored for just such emergencies—this would go into replacing the already-made salves she spread upon Jinwoo’s ribs and dotted beneath his eye. She was careful in how she used the herbs, for while they had flourished in the wilds just south of Lothering, Bin had found them scarcer upon Kirkwall’s coast, and purchasing them was not an expense they could afford—especially not with the loss of Ahren and Jinwoo’s company.

It was this news Bin brought, first to Jinwoo (for he was confined to the bed), and then to his mother and MJ—and immediately the worry set in on how they would survive. By this time they had all bathed, though it had been with cool water rather than warm, for with four bodies to clean they could not forever wait for the water to heat before transferring it to the washing basin. And now Jinwoo slept in Bin’s room, having been encouraged to take another sip from the poppy brew, and the three that remained awake gathered about the kitchen table.

“We’ve some money saved,” his mother was quick to acknowledge—but she and Bin knew it would vanish frighteningly quick beneath the rent they must now pay. There was also the matter of Jinwoo’s accommodations: were they bought and thus freely his? Or was it, like Bin’s street, merely a lot afforded to the ordinary folk for a set fee by some noble in Hightown? And there was the manner of jobs—summer would come soon, yes, but Kirkwall was not built upon land suitable for farming, and fishing never had true booming seasons and thus no time where extra hands were in great demand.

They had decided that it would be best for both to look for jobs—and they had a little time, afforded to them by the money they had saved—when there came a soft, almost dragging step from near the kitchen’s entrance. Bin and his mother turned to look, though MJ had been watching for some time now, having grown bored with their conversation of bills and coins, and so unlike them did not react badly to the figure that appeared there.

“Jinwoo,” Bin said, surprise thinning his voice. His mother was up almost immediately, hurrying toward him in much the same way one might when finding a cat upon one’s basket of fresh laundry _yet again_ —but MJ only greeted the dwarf with a wiggle of his fingers and a laughing, “Hello, sleepyhead.”

The dwarf was obviously still feeling the effects of the potion he had been fed, for his head nodded dizzily, and his chin bumped his chest a few times. But he held up a letter, surprisingly neat considering the state of him, and said, “Bin, would you—,” but his voice ground down to rocks, and he swallowed thickly before trying again. “Deliver this to, to Eldrek, in the viscount’s keep?” Bin’s mother drew alongside him even as he asked, though her fingers were hesitant, her voice quiet, as she admonished him for leaving his bed.

“The viscount’s keep?” Bin asked. He was not sure if his voice squeaked—but if it had, then it was understandable—for he was not a noble, was nowhere near nobility, and Jinwoo was asking him to walk into the lion’s den, all to deliver a letter?

Jinwoo closed his eyes, drew a deep sigh and expelled it, before opening them and saying, “It will help.” The beatings his body had endured yesterday seemed to have caught up to him, for what light there had been to his eyes had dulled and even the smile he flashed, beseeching, was drawn down by fatigue. He was in no state to deliver such a message himself, and so Bin reluctantly rose and took the letter from his friend, saying, “Fine, but sleep,” understanding now all those times Jinwoo had grown waspish whenever Bin or MJ continued to act foolishly when carrying injuries of their own.

It was only once the dwarf had been once more guided into Bin’s bed that MJ peeked around Bin’s side, eyes flittering from the letter in his hand up to his face, and said, “I can guide you.”

“Can you,” Bin said, not making it a question—just acknowledging that _of course_ MJ would know the way. Because, after all, had he not gone there yesterday? Had he not brought something, spun some sort of tale, that led the guard’s captain to raise high his sword and lead his men on a dawn assault? Had the prince not so often played the fool, perhaps Bin would have found him frightening, but he could only crack a smile and then let slip a laugh when MJ added in some strange, high-pitched voice, “Of course I can!”

“Well,” he said, casting an eye to his mother, who nodded, “I suppose we should go, then.”

“Mmhm,” MJ hummed in agreement, already heading toward the door. Bin had nothing to do but follow along, still carrying the letter and unwilling to let it leave the palm of his hand.

He carried it as such the whole way, not quite trusting his pockets. Most of Kirkwall had returned to its work, but they still passed knots of people, sometimes whispering and sometimes speaking loudly—all talking of the events that had occurred the night before and in the dawning hours of the day—and what would the aftermath be, some wondered, even as others sighed that this was the greatest excitement they would experience for the month.

Their pace only slowed as they stepped into Hightown proper, for Bin’s feet naturally directed him toward the building that had once housed his company. And he did not know what he had expected of it: burned, perhaps, or ransacked, the door hanging from its hinges at the entrance. But it was just as he had last seen it, except there was a darkness to it, some strange feeling that made him curl his lip in evident dislike—and that was perhaps because it had betrayed him and hurt Jinwoo. But, ultimately, it was an empty building. Bin only stared at it for the smallest of moments before he was hurrying after MJ, who had not paused with him but gone on, head held in that noble, arrogant posture that made him look like just another of Hightown’s well-bred residents.

It was at the highest point in Kirkwall that the viscount’s keep was located. So high spiraled its peak, its pointed roofs, that it was the first structure spotted from the coastline, the first sight seen when descending from the mountains. It was only from the sea that it was obscured, overtaken by the massive black cliffs that served as protectors against any ocean-sent offense. And it was massive, rivalled only by the Chantry which sat lower—but the keep was constrained in its drapings, only the many banners of its noble houses hung outside and along the pathway that led into it, whereas the chantry steps were shadowed by great golden statues that rose so high, stood so mightily, that Bin thought they might come to life, that they would be as gods if they so chose to.

He was gladdened when they entered the keep proper, though this was quickly replaced by dismay, for the estate was sprawling, the open floor they entered upon massive, with great pillars that rose dizzyingly high to hold up the roof. Beyond, further within, stairs rose onto a second floor, and Bin could only assume that was the way they were meant to go, for other staircases led to their right and their left, but both these were guarded, with a man that MJ pointed out as the viscount’s seneschal stood near the left.

As they walked, for it was a grand room, so large that Bin was reminded of the Gallows’ courtyard, MJ took the time to point out how the keep itself was divided. To the left, behind the seneschal, behind the guards that accompanied him and kept order amongst the line of nobles that formed to speak to him or move past him, was the viscount’s office and also the seneschal’s—and perhaps their living quarters, if they must stay late, for the space seemed too large to only contain a pair of rooms. And right, where yet more people crowded, though many were dressed more plainly and stood uneasily, was the barracks that housed the city guard. Further within was also the captain’s office. It was grand, supposedly, but MJ did not elaborate upon its grandness, only said that it was surprising that such a man demanded so great a room.

Deeper within the keep, now having climbed up the squat stairs that were blanketed by a many-lengths rug lined with golden threading, Bin could see the throne room. There was but a single seat set up, upon which only the viscount could sit, and it was bracketed by two pillars and backed by an ornate carving of the city’s symbol: something that was like a hawk but also like a city, drawn in the dwarven fashion which consisted of straight, stout lines so that tall, sky-scraping buildings rose on either side of what appeared to be a crown, their lines interconnecting beneath it and stretching down, so far down that they disappeared behind the back of the throne and Bin did not see their completion.

But the chair was unoccupied, and instead Bin turned toward the guard that stood nearest—presumably so that none would try to sit upon the throne but the viscount himself—and politely asked where he might find a man by the name of Eldrek.

He was pointed down a hall that ran along behind the throne room and told that of the doors that ran with it, he should try the third he came upon—but that he might also look at the nameplates that had been affixed beside each door, for Eldrek served the House of Torsten—“Dwarves,” the man said to Bin’s blank look—and so had taken their name for his own.

Bin did as he was bidden, aware that MJ had somewhat withdrawn upon himself and now was content to watch the proceedings. He and the prince traveled down the hallway as they had been told, and Bin found the man’s office as he had been directed—and yes, Torsten was sat behind Eldrek’s name upon the nameplate that had been tacked onto the wall. The man worked for a dwarven family, and so Bin was not surprised when his knock upon the door was answered by a dwarf, wearing the livery of some noble family—the dwarven family he served, most likely, though Bin had thought that dwarven nobility did not truly exist upon the surface, at least not as they did beneath the ground. But then again, he had only been educated in Lothering, and what did those Chantry-approved books know? He resolved to ask Jinwoo later, when his friend was in a state that lent itself to conversation. 

As it was, the dwarf offered him a quick up-and-down, and asked, in the slow drawl of a man used to speaking carefully, “Yes, messere? Is there something I may assist you with regarding the Torstens?”

“I have a letter,” Bin said—then added, when the man only raised his eyebrows, “For you. It is for you from—from Jinwoo,” because he did not know his friend’s last name, had never thought to ask because surface dwarves supposedly gave up all ties to their family when they came above-ground.

But apparently Jinwoo’s name was all that he needed—was more than enough, given how the dwarf promptly took the letter from his hand, something like a frown upon his face. Though it was difficult to tell when most dwarves frowned, because almost all of them wore beards.

“May I read this?” Eldrek asked. With Bin’s consent, he turned from them, circled the desk he had previously been at work at—if the scatter of documents upon its surface was any indication—and drew forth a letter opener, extracting the note from inside the envelope with a practiced hand.

There were a few moments of silence as Eldrek read through its contents, then he muttered a soft, “Ah, I see,” and set it down. He raised his eyes toward Bin once more and said, “Thank you greatly, messere. There is no return message.” And he offered up a gold sovereign, adding, “For your service.”

They were out the door and heading back down the steps from the keep when MJ said, “Knew it.” Bin did not bother to ask the prince what he meant—he had discovered the same thing, or something similar at least.

His life at Lothering had amounted to a handful of silver coins. For delivering a message, he had been rewarded with an amount twenty times that. Had he been one to dwell, it would have left a bitter taste to his mouth—but the sight of the sovereign instead infused in him gratitude, for his family would be buoyed by it. The entire gold piece could be handed off to the landlady, and the wealth they had accumulated spent keeping them alive. It would add time and a buffer. So, he would not ask Jinwoo, he would not return home and _demand_ the dwarf tell him who the Torstens were and who he was. He would wait until his friend felt better and speak on it then. And if Jinwoo trusted him and told him, then his curiosity would be sated.  

That had been his plan.

But whether Jinwoo was or was not related to some great noble house—of the sort that their servants kept entire sovereigns upon their person—came not to matter at all in the weeks that followed. For several days later, following Jinwoo’s insistence that Bin would not have to worry over rent and the dwarf’s return to his own home, MJ alongside him, the city came to know a threat more real than the Qunari, more present than the Blight—and it came in the form of a mangled corpse.

Bin was one of the first to find her. He had obtained work in bits and pieces: a delivery across the city, a bit of muscle offered in the Hanged Man when its patrons grew too rowdy. And he had been on his way home from a similar job—having been commanded to escort a highborn lady through Lowtown so that she might visit her sweetheart at work in the Gallows—when a shriek ripped through the quiet alley he traveled down.

He hurried toward the sound, the sword upon his back being hefted in his hand, raised into a position that could swipe and block in equal measure—but when he finally rounded a corner and burst out onto a side-road streaming with sunlight, he found only a woman, scrambling away from a pile of meat with tears streaming down her face, her freckles in stark relief against the near-death pallor of her face.

Bin hurried to assist her, but she only screamed louder, babbling an incomprehensible stream of words that nonetheless resolved themselves into something resembling, “Maker, why, why, _Oh Maker!_ This is a nightmare, a nightmare, Andraste, _Lady_ —” even as she continued to claw her way past him and plaster herself against the opposite wall, her head turned to its grimy face as if she might blot out the meat’s existence simply by looking away.

Down the street, dimly, below the woman’s din, Bin heard someone call for the guards, and he stepped nearer the meat. The sweet scent of rotting offal flooded his nose as the wind abruptly began to stir, a strong breeze tugging playfully at the scraps of cloth the meat had been wrapped in.  It was only drawn nearer that Bin recognized what he had all along taken as a butchered pig was in fact a woman, only recently deceased.

Bin had dressed a number of animals before. He could remember deer, rabbits, wild boar that too often destroyed his mother’s herb garden if not properly managed. He had developed muscles sawing off a pig’s head, cutting down its middle to split it twain. And this woman looked something like a butcher’s work: her skin having been removed in neat little sections, a strip of cheek showing, the curve of muscle that wrapped around an eye. But she had not been drained of blood as most animals were—instead, there was something like a tube that had been affixed to the inside of one arm, a dark circle further up suggesting a tourniquet had once been tied there.

But the stench—that rotting, half-dead scent—came from her torso, which had been slit open at some point and then stitched closed. The stitches had ripped, and her organs had all spilled out upon the ground around her, and Bin only made it this far before his brain removed itself from where he was.

She should not have been alive, should not have been able to crawl across the alleyway, dragging her intestines upon the rough, stone ground—but she had done so, and she had died upon this incoherent woman’s doorstep, hand outstretched in a plea for help.

The city guards, upon reaching the scene, immediately called for the templars. Bin did not know how long he stood there—not looking at the dead woman or the living woman but resting in that blackness the mind conjured when faced with a reality that could break it. He drew himself back into the present slowly, only fully returning to himself when one of the templars called to the scene drew forth his sword and raised it warningly in Bin’s direction.

“Serah,” said another templar, his expression haggard but his voice soft. “We must take you in for questioning. Do you consent?” He had a careful way of speaking, one hand raised in what Bin assumed was something like a calming gesture. Bin realized—still feeling as if he was not quite there, as if to fully submerse himself in his body was to face the awful truth: a truth that he had already begun to rid himself of, as easily as one might dispose of some awful thing by placing it within a box and placing this box within a cupboard and locking that cupboard—that the templars that accompanied this man were not so staunchly made as he. Upon more closely examining what remained of the dead woman, the one with his sword out lowered it to the ground, as if the sight of such wretched death had drained all the outrage from his body. The second templar merely turned away, raising his eyes skyward, gloved fingers rising to pinch at the bridge of his nose, as if the corpse might cease to exist outside of his vision.

Bin’s own eyes were no better, for anytime he glanced toward the body it was as if the image was blurred or blocked or—something, anything, that he might not see the details of her suffering once more. Even the darkspawn had shown more compassion to their fallen foes.  

  “Yes,” he answered, still not feeling entirely there. But it was easier to focus on this templar, this man who only offered the body a look of—what, recognition? No, there was a sense of familiarity, and Bin thought, _Mage_. _It is a mage’s work._

This templar, who introduced himself as Knight Captain, beneath Knight Commander Meredith but above most of the rest of Kirkwall’s templars, accompanied Bin to the Gallows. The other two remained to guard the body. Bin did not ask after the living woman, though he would have liked to, for she had been almost catatonic when they had arrived, and he assumed they had judged her a less-pressing problem if only because she could not move.

It had been some time since he had last been within the Gallows and having now taken his place among the citizens of Kirkwall, this fortress lent itself a prisonous atmosphere as he stepped within. Though there had been few mages allowed to wander the open courtyard when he had first arrived in the city, more and more Tranquil had begun to show themselves—for once a mage’s connection to the Fade had been cut off, they ceased to dream and ceased to possess magic. But Bin knew the Tranquil were named as such for the side-effect that came of this process: an absolute destruction of individuality, with only the desire to be led and directed. He had only spoken to a Tranquil once upon a time, and it had been as speaking to a creature trapped in a dream, for he could not quite think of them as human, with how they watched him so placidly, accepted their fate so easily.

Before, Bin had only passed through the Gallows. Now, however, the Knight Captain led him into the depths of the fortress, past training yards of templars, past a number of mages who were in turn watched over by their guards, each mage always accompanied by at least one templar but often two or three. He heard one man say, “Back to your room now,” and the mage he walked beside went so docilely, the elven woman only briefly meeting Bin’s eyes as she turned away from the sunlight and trudged back into the darkened bowels of the fortress.

The upper levels were of a brighter affair with windows affixed in each room. Perhaps, unsurprisingly, these rooms were also almost entirely dominated by templars, and it was into one such office that the Knight Captain led Bin—though his name was Cullen, wasn’t it? One of the mages had called him that, as they had walked by. The First Enchanter, Cullen had addressed him as: an elven man who had been accompanied by no one and who walked freely—but he had worn that freedom heavily, lines carved around a mouth that seemed to frown more often than it smiled. They had spoken but briefly, with Cullen obviously impatient to continue with Bin in tow. And the First Enchanter had said sharply something to do with Meredith, the Knight Commander.

But that was as far as Bin had listened, for the fortress drew his attention in a multitude of directions, and it was only safely ensconced in Cullen’s room that he became able to properly focus. Cullen encouraged him to sit, the templar situating himself behind the desk that occupied the back half of the office. Bin sat down hesitantly before it, one hand resting upon the hilt of his sword—not for protection, but because it was something familiar and thus offered comfort.

There were a few moments of quiet, the only sound the steady scratch of Cullen’s quill. Bin raised his unoccupied hand, scratched uneasily at his neck and thought of his mother. He wondered if he should ask how long he would be kept, if he might send a message to let her know he was all right—but then he thought of the templars he had passed in the Gallows, of they way they had all regarded their charges with the wariness afforded temperamental beasts. And so he did not speak, only further clawed at the delicate skin that ran below his jaw.

At last Cullen sighed and sat back at his desk, raising his own hand to rub at the back of his neck. “Right then,” he said. “I’d like if you could tell me how you came upon the… deceased.” He removed his hand from his nape and took up his pen once more, adding, “Your name, occupation, and where you live would also be appreciated.”

It was easiest to provide his own information, and so Bin ran through that first. Cullen proved himself an active participant in the conversation, saying at one point, “I’d suggest you might join the Order, if you’d prefer proper employment, but we try not to show new recruits the worst of our job until they’re well and fully committed to the idea.” He had meant it as a dark humor, Bin knew, but he could not bring himself to even smile politely at the man’s words, and so at last he was encouraged to continue. Briefly, Bin mentioned the circumstances that had led him first to Kirkwall, and the templar smiled to hear he was originally from Ferelden: though it sat strangely upon his face, not fully fond, almost shameful. But he did not comment upon it, and at last they came upon how Bin had found the woman.

The telling of it was mercifully short—but Bin had to pause occasionally, for his thoughts scattered each time he brushed up against that image of what he had seen. “It’s terrible,” Cullen commented at one point, when Bin found himself struggling to piece together exactly what he had seen. “It’s not a sight I would wish upon anyone.”

“It was a mage,” Bin said as they drew near the end of his recount. He did not mean to say it, but he had become detached from himself in the retelling of his experience. He pressed his lips together firmly, meeting Cullen’s eyes.

There was a heartbeat where the Knight Captain watched him in return and said nothing. Then he smiled, a touch sardonic, and said, “Yes. I’m afraid so.” He did not sound surprised or even worried—instead there was something like fatigue that coated his voice, an old familiarity as if this waking nightmare was not the first of its kind.

Bin’s questioning ended some half hour later, and Cullen escorted him to the gates that led into Lowtown. “We might call upon you later,” the templar told him. “I’d say not to speak of this to anyone, but I’m sure the entire city has heard of it by now. Still, try not to gossip.”

The walk to his house was mercifully uneventful—but it was as Cullen had said. Already the knowledge that _someone_ had died and died _badly_ had spread throughout Lowtown. What people he passed on his return scurried by, each one with head low. But there were also a few pockets who clustered together, taking solace in their greater number to discuss what had occurred, why templars had suddenly swarmed their streets, why a woman had been screaming bloody murder.

When he was called back to the Gallows a few days later, it was only to confirm before the Knight Commander—and she was a steel trap of a woman, her accomplishments and prowess practically bristling off her—what had already been detailed in the report submitted about his involvement. The other witness confirmed he had come second and tried to assist her, and when it became apparent that he knew nothing more he was released.

“Well, it was bound to happen,” MJ said some time later. “Everyone knows Kirkwall treats its mages the worst in the Free Marches. Ostwick is the best, supposedly. Their Teryn’s only son is a mage.”

“What does that mean?” Bin asked. He and his mother had paid an impromptu visit to Jinwoo’s house, and she was now checking on the dwarf in his room while Bin chatted with the prince.

MJ shrugged. “You treat someone like a monster long enough, they start to think they are. And if they’re a monster, then why shouldn’t they use blood magic? That’s what it has to be,” he added.

“If not for the rest of it, I’d agree,” Bin said. In the days since he had seen the body, it had become easier to recount the more difficult parts. His stomach always lurched when he dove into the finer details, but he no longer found himself raising a mental wall each time he did so. That first night he had been unable to sleep, for each time he had, he had been assaulted by nightmares of that woman, skin peeling from her face, guts spilling from her stomach, clawing at him, begging him to save her, _save her_ —but he no longer dreamed, thanks to the poppy tincture Jinwoo had lent him.

“Well, it was blood magic that kept her alive that long, at least.”

A silence took hold. It continued to sit between them until Bin’s mother returned from Jinwoo’s room, the dwarf stepping hesitantly behind her. “He’s healing nicely,” she said, and Bin offered his friend a smile, relieved to hear some good news. Jinwoo’s face had mostly returned to its original color, and now it was only his ribs that needed tending. Bin’s mother had speculated that in another few weeks they too would return to normal. Then it would just be a matter of slowly reminding Jinwoo’s body what work was, how to fight and wear armor and all the other things he had foregone while he recovered.

That it was truly a blood mage loose upon the city was confirmed but a scant week later. It had been a kidnapping gone wrong, most said. A woman, alone on the docks—and she had screamed, managed to dodge her assailant’s hands long enough to almost escape—and when people had come running to save her, the sound had abruptly cut off, and they’d found her with blood boiling up from her mouth, running out of her ears, spurting out from the corners of her eyes, and streaming down from her nostrils. Bin heard all of this second-hand and found himself gladdened (and sick with shame that he should be so glad) that it was not he who had discovered her.

If there was some good that came from this woman’s horrific death, it was that there could be no further denial that it was not a maleficar. The first had been dissected, carefully teased apart—but this victim’s blood had boiled in her very veins and forced itself free of her body through whatever orifice was available. The first could be attributed to a simple serial killer—and how strange, Bin would think later, that a man who stole women from their lives and cut them apart, could be considered _simple_ when set against a mage—but the second woman’s death left little doubt that the culprit was a blood mage.  

It was the Chantry who took immediate action in light of this horrific proof. The Grand Cleric’s decision was not made immediately apparent, though whatever it was must have angered the Knight Commander greatly, for reports came, second-hand, of her having stormed from the Kirkwall Chantry. Even the nobles, who often moved for no one but themselves, were said to have scrambled from her path, terrified of the rage that gripped her.

It was a messenger boy who ultimately revealed exactly _what_ the Grand Cleric had done—for he told his friends and they told their clients and soon it spread through Kirkwall like wildfire, almost engulfing the news that a blood mage was loose in the city: that a _mage_ was coming, a mage to catch a mage. A Knight Enchanter, it was whispered. The Teryn’s son, his heir, trained in Orlais, but with Free Marcher blood running through his veins—and so on the day he arrived, a great crowd had gathered about the gate he would enter through, for he came from the Wounded Coast, accompanied by a few servants his father had sent along.

Bin stood among the sea of people, Jinwoo having accompanied him. MJ had chosen to escort Bin’s mother on her herb-picking, saying he would see the mage later, when the populace had taken their fill of him. Bin thought it more likely that he had simply seen the sort of crowd gathering and decided he would not fight against that great wave.

It had taken some time, but Bin had managed to stake out a piece of territory that stood near the gates, a touch uphill so that he might look down over people’s heads. For Jinwoo he had carefully procured a stout wooden box, and his friend now stood upon it, head constantly swiveling as he took in the crowd.

“Enjoying the view?” Bin asked, a touch sly.

The dwarf only snorted and continued to look about him. After a moment, he said, “ _You_ were the one who wanted to see this man. I could leave right now.”

“You wouldn’t,” Bin said. He was aware of all the conversations that went on around them. There was an open air of curiosity that hung over the crowd—but there was also a distinct darkness that threaded through its belly, hostile whispers that asked why would they loose a monster against another monster? A tamed demon was only safe so long as it remembered who its master was, and that was all that mages were: demons, clothed in human skin.

Once upon a time Bin had asked Jinwoo and MJ their thoughts on mages. The dwarf had admitted he was ambivalent. But Bin had expected that; after all, mages only occurred amongst humans and elves. Dwarves did not dream and had no real connection to the Fade. They were too much of the earth, Jinwoo had said. He had sounded wistful as he gazed up at the sky.

The one that had surprised Bin was MJ, for the prince had approached his question with a gravitas that was surprising. “They are a bit like rulers, I think,” he had answered. “But kings and princes are taught how to wield their power.” And he had laughed and added, “Sometimes, anyway.”

Bin still did not know how he felt. Once he had sympathized with the apostates’ plight. But he had also seen firsthand what a mage could do—and it was a cruelty he had not thought a person capable of. He was only glad he had not seen the second body, for it was said her eyes had run like burst yolk, and Jinwoo’s tincture was nearing its end, and it would not be refilled with him so near to full health. Bin had already been informed by Cullen that he would likely have to retell his story one last time, for this Knight Enchanter was surprisingly diligent and thought a report incapable of telling the whole story.  

So, he wanted to see the man, just a glimpse, even from a distance, to see what a mage freed of its Circle was like. He knew that, however unfair, he would hold this man against the image of the blood mage he had conjured in his mind.

When at last the mage entered Kirkwall, it was with a sudden crescendo of voices, the city guard forcing back the crowd that tried to press nearer. The Knight Enchanter rode upon a palfrey, his attendants drawing a carriage behind them.  It was the horse Bin noticed first, for the creature was a sight sweeter than Sugar had been: high-prancing and light-bodied, its rider’s hands motionless upon its reins, easily directing it with just the smallest of pressure applied to its sides.

And then the Knight Enchanter turned his head—in Bin’s direction, though later Jinwoo would say it had been some blasted drunk behind them, hooting like a monkey, that had drawn the mage’s attention—and Bin felt his breath catch. For the Knight Enchanter was beautiful in a way no other man had ever been.

Later, Bin would think it was not his face, nor his clothes, nor his retinue. It was not the promise he brought—but it was the smile he offered, small and uncomfortable and _human_. And his friend may have sworn it was the fool who had continued to shout behind them that caused that expression to appear, for all that it was a brief second before the Knight Enchanter’s countenance smoothed and he turned his face forward once more—but Bin thought the mage had seen Bin, as Bin had seen him, and they had recognized the hope in each other. Bin, hoping that this man would remind Kirkwall, and more importantly himself, that a mage was a man as any other. And the Knight Enchanter, perhaps hoping that Kirkwall would place the same trust in him that Bin had in that split moment.

But it was only a moment, and Bin watched his procession continue onward, the Knight Enchanter as chilling as ice upon his horse.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello!! I've been incredibly busy with finals and presentations, but I'm happy to say that's all over with now and I can return to writing. But also I promised y'all some Eunwoo this chapter so I damn well wrote until we _hit_ Eunwoo. Also hopefully next chapter I can go back to just writing 6k word chapters instead of 16k or whatever this ended up being :^)
> 
> Since this was written in a fairly disjointed manner, I did my best to go back and smooth everything together. But apologies if there are still some rough spots remaining :')


	5. Chapter V

 

 

 

Kirkwall was rarely united in its opinions. There were simply too many bodies, too many personalities, for the city to come to a consensus. For every man that spoke gladly of the viscount, there was yet another that saw him as a puppet of the templars. And though a great number of its population hated and feared the Qunari (for they were led by a towering oxman with grey skin and horns atop his head like a dragon’s)—there were a small number that had begun to visit the compound they resided in. And, especially among the elves, already looked down upon by the humans, there was something like sanctuary to be found in the folds of the Qun.

But, when pressed to it, all agreed that the Knight Enchanter who had come to dwell within their city was a force unlike any they had ever seen. You _knew_ when he walked the streets, for there was always this presence that came upon the air with his appearance.

He had taken up residence in one of the many estates that sprawled across Hightown, a modest—though there was nothing modest about nobility—townhouse that was encircled by a wrought-iron fence with curling vines and flowering honeysuckle twisted about the bars and hooped around the tines. The estate itself was still of a considerable size, but it held not the spreading vastness that most mansions did, and it was only occupied by the mage and his two attendants. Having not a stable upon the premise, his horse had reportedly been stalled in the viscount’s personal barn—and even among the many regally bred steeds that were found within, it was considered an exemplary piece of horseflesh, dappled grey with a cat-like quickness and a hot temper passed down from its desert ancestors, brought from the sands of the Western Approach.

Bin learned all of this second-hand. These were stories and tales that were traded in the Hanged Man, for even the gruffest lout could not help but perk up his ears and quiet his rumbling when the Knight Enchanter was mentioned. But he also saw the Knight Enchanter, if only ever from a distance.

It was MJ who first pointed the man out to Bin, two days having come and gone since the mage’s grand entrance. It had been a market day, and both Jinwoo and Bin’s mother had immersed themselves in finding the best deals. The dwarf had locked himself into some frenzied haggling with an old woman over peaches that were near to overripening. And his mother had paused, counting out the items she had purchased and what she had yet to gather—and so it had been MJ who had nudged at Bin, and said, “Oh, _look_.”

They were still in Lowtown, of course. But they were near that invisible border, where the two sides of Kirkwall mingled together in an uneasy acknowledgement that they all lived within the same city. And, as Lowtown held its market day, so too did Hightown. Bin had seen the Knight Enchanter, an elven man trailing him like a shadow, carefully considering each stall loaded with goods. And in his wake had followed a gaggle of men and women—nobles, as he, but Bin had seen quickly that they were but bothers to the Knight Enchanter, who verily tried to ignore their existence as he went about his business.

“It’s wonderful being popular,” MJ had said, lips upturned in a wicked smile.

“Well, he’s new,” Bin had said—but he had spoken cautiously, uncertain whether he should intervene or not.

MJ had laid his hand upon Bin’s shoulder and said, “Oh, don’t bother, Binnie. They won’t listen to you.”

The prince’s words had proven true, for the Knight Enchanter’s cluster of followers listened to no one: in the days that followed they were told numerous times to leave the Knight Enchanter alone. But they had been allowed to stay, at least up until they began to interfere with his investigation. Then, they were told off by first the city guards and then the templars, and Bin _had_ seen that: a pair of templars in full armor with their voices warped strangely by the helms they wore, shouting at the nobility not to interfere in Knight Enchanter Cha Eunwoo’s investigation, for _lives_ were at stake.

Though Bin had thought he might linger and watch the crowd’s reaction to being talked down to—nobility hated the thought of others policing them—he found himself watching the Knight Enchanter instead. Cha Eunwoo had always worn a careful smile whenever he went out into the city. Polite, people said, but maintaining a certain distance. But Bin had seen the darkness that had briefly passed over his face, as the templars shouted at the nobles. And so he was not surprised when the Knight Enchanter briefly put his hand near one of the templar’s shoulder—not quite touching, as if the metal might burn him—and assured them that it was no trouble, certainly.

“Excuse me, everyone?” His voice had pitched loud, enough so that even Bin, stood a distance away, could hear him clearly. It had been his first time to hear the mage’s voice, and it was as water, refreshing and tranquil and light—and perhaps a touch cold, yes, but it was not an unkind chill, it was not uncomfortable. “I’ve an investigation to conduct and so shall be busy for most of this morning—but perhaps you shall all join me for the ball held as Messere Borel’s manse this evening?”

There had been a great outburst at that, an excited chittering from the crowd, and Bin had nearly jumped when a snort sounded from his side. But it had only been Myungjun, the prince having crept up on silent feet to stand beside him.

“Look at that,” MJ had said, sounding—impressed. Which was itself impressive, because MJ never gave true praise. “Tips his head, smiles a bit—and they’re turkeys. Cut my neck, Messere Mage.”

It was just as MJ said: the man had smiled, just a small quirk of his lips. He had tilted his head, just so, in a way that was almost like a dog but far more fetching. And his words had been the final component needed to soothe the nobles, for they had all spoken eagerly of the party that would be held, what they would wear, who was going. They had slowly begun to disperse, for one must procure a new dress, a new suit, for each party; it was simply uncouth to ever wear the same outfit twice to two separate functions.

Cha Eunwoo had stood there until his entire retinue had removed themselves. Then he had dropped into a small bow, said, “Serahs,” to the templars who continued to stand there, not quite certain how to conduct themselves, and turned on his heel and continued on his way, as if the entire event had never happened.

“I thought you did not mind mages,” Bin had said after a moment of simply watching the Knight Enchanter. “Or—,” and he had struggled, trying to figure out how best to phrase what he thought. It was dangerous to speak kindly of mages, especially considering the maleficar that now stalked their city.

“I do not,” MJ had agreed. “I don’t mind kings either. Not until they’re trying to kill me, at least.”

And that was how MJ was—one moment a bundle of nervous energy, laughing and teasing and behaving as a child who had only ever been spoiled. But when he thought to speak seriously, Bin had learned to listen. So, when Bin was inevitably called to recount his story of finding the first victim to the Knight Enchanter, he kept the prince’s words in his mind.

The memory of it had not faded, not exactly. But he had placed it behind the wall that held back Ostagar and Jinwoo’s kidnapping—and now he must drag it out, one final time. That was the mantra that repeated in his head, as steady as his heartbeat, as he once more traveled to the Gallows. _One more time, one last time. The last one_.

He was not surprised to learn the Knight Enchanter had set up his personal office amongst the templars—in fact, he was certain it must be a concession on the mage’s part, to prove he was an ally and not an enemy.

Arriving at the Knight Enchanter’s room, he found that Cha Eunwoo’s gesture of goodwill had been squandered by the order. Whereas most of the templars of notable rank kept offices with outward-facing windows and spacious flooring, the mage had been settled into a corner room. There was barely room for the desk that had been squeezed into it, and the chairs set up before and behind it took the rest of the space. There were no windows and what light glowed came only from the lanterns the Knight Enchanter had been afforded. One sat upon the desk, while two more clustered on the small stand huddled against a corner.

His arrival was announced with a sharp knock from Cullen (who had of course accompanied him, no one was allowed to walk freely within the fortress) and after a moment the mage called for them to enter. The templar opened the door, nodding Bin in ahead of him. Cullen did not follow him in, content instead to stand in the entrance, leaning against the doorframe. “He’s arrived, messere. He was the second to encounter our first deceased’s remains.” His voice was clipped in its delivery, and Bin found himself wondering if Cha Eunwoo rattled the templar. He had thought before that the Knight Captain was made of stouter stuff, but perhaps he had a right to be wary. Compared to their downtrodden Free Marcher counterparts, Knight Enchanters trained in Orlais were said to be an entirely different breed.

It seemed the feeling was somewhat mutual, for though Cha Eunwoo rose to greet them, his voice was quietly authoritative as he thanked Cullen and then dismissed him, so swiftly that Bin had only just risen from his bow when Cullen left.

Cha Eunwoo watched the templar leave, his dark eyes unreadable. Then there was—something, something melting within him, almost like ice settling against itself, and he offered Bin a small smile and asked, “Would you close the door, please?”

Bin did as he was bidden then hesitated as he considered how best to conduct himself. Carefully, still feeling uncertain, he moved toward the chair that stood before the desk; he had come here to be interviewed once more, after all, and it was not as if the room lent itself to standing and speaking.  He sat down upon it, feeling vaguely claustrophobic, for the chamber pressed in tight without windows, the flagstone floor and stone brick walls oppressive when cast in lamplight.

“I’d offer you tea,” the Knight Enchanter said, his mouth still curled. “But I’m afraid the templars detest when I make myself known. They’ve no great love for me, tramping about underfoot as I am.”

“No, messere, that’s fine,” Bin hurried to assure him—even as the Knight Enchanter’s words sunk in. He could only blink for a moment, before asking, a touch wary, “Is it wise to… to speak of them so?”

“Perhaps not,” the mage agreed lightly. He tilted his head as he said it, eyes drifting downward to rest upon the documents that lay across his desk. He considered them a moment more as Bin watched. Then he took up a quill and set it not quite upon a piece of paper, instead letting the pen hover but a nail’s length above it. “Then shall we simply discuss what you saw?”

It was not what Bin had expected. Cullen’s interrogation of him had been a dry retelling of the facts: where he had been, what he had been doing, when he had come upon the body, what time it had been, how long had he been there, what he had seen. And each piece of information had been matched against the other witness’ account, and his whereabouts before the victim was found had been confirmed with his client and those of Lowtown that knew him by sight if not by name. He had some amount of good standing in Lowtown, and so suspicion against him had not lasted long.

He considered how to answer, not _wanting_ to remember again, but knowing that he must.

And then came the Knight Enchanter’s voice, softly slipping through the thoughts that had gathered around him like a cloud of angry flies, “It’s all right. I understand it’s difficult. But please know that you are helping to ensure that same fate does not befall others.”

_That same fate_ – Bin flinched at that, for he was reminded then, forcefully, of the skinned woman, with her guts spilled upon the dirty ground. Nausea gripped him—but it swiftly passed, becoming a dull ache in the pit of his stomach, a reminder that what he had seen had been some time ago. And he had seen worse, hadn’t he? Upon the field of battle, during that night in Ostagar.

He brought his elbows up and settled them upon the desk, his hands clinging to each other, the blunt nails of the fore and middle fingers of his left hand scratching distractedly at the skin upon his right. Then, reminding himself again that this was not Ostagar, that he had seen worse, that it had been weeks ago (and that the Knight Enchanter was right, this was to _help_ ), he began.

“I was returning from Hightown—I’d been hired as an escort by one of theirs—and I heard this scream. Screams don’t mean anything good in Lowtown.” He could not help but wryly smile as he said it, for the mage had likely lived a perfumed life. Hadn’t MJ once mentioned they were as pets to the gentry in Orlais? He could only imagine this beautiful man curling up close to a noble, producing a bit of fire in the palm of his hand so that he might provide a parlor trick and offer some amount of warmth together.  But his words did not cease, and he focused upon the flow of them, losing sight of the mage as he retraced his steps from that day.

“I went down the alleyway—near the Hanged Man, I think. Down one of those side streets where it’s mostly houses, no real shopping there. And that woman was screaming, just a whole host of words. I don’t think she ever even saw me, just got as far away as she could. I thought it was meat—a pig? Rotted, maybe, because of how badly it smelled. But it was a woman and her guts were all torn out, and her face was—have you seen an animal dressed? You can tear the skin straight off a rabbit, but some of the bigger ones, you have to take it off in segments. And it was like someone had torn off bits and pieces but, but… I don’t know,” he finished at last.

Bin swallowed, for his mouth had dried in the speaking of it. “She shouldn’t have been alive,” he added, remembering the smear that had shown the way she’d crawled from.

“She most likely was not,” the Knight Enchanter agreed.

Bin blinked and refocused upon him. The mage’s head was bent over his paper, pen scribbling tight, tiny words upon the parchment. Though Bin could not read it from where he sat, it looked as if the mage had broken down parts of his tale into sections.

Raising his eyes once more to the Knight Enchanter’s face, he asked, “What do you mean?”

The Knight Enchanter continued to write, though he did glance up briefly to meet Bin’s eyes. “It is not a particularly popular school of magic outside the Tevinter Imperium, but necromancy of a kind is possible.” He raised the quill’s end to his mouth, and murmured aloud, “The Circle records, perhaps…”

“An abomination?” Bin asked. He had heard the word used before, in describing what a mage might become when it consorted with demons.

The Knight Enchanter blinked and met Bin’s gaze with a small smile. “No,” he answered, patiently, “abominations are the results of demonic possession upon a mage. Necromancy encourages a spirit drawn near to inhabit the body for a time, and so it may mimic the living. But, considering the second victim,” and he briefly paused, before once more scribbling furiously upon the parchment, saying as he wrote, “it might well be possible that it was a form of blood magic that kept her animated. It is not so well-documented as necromancy.”

It was as if he were watching a student, overcome with theorems and hypotheses about a problem that was purely academic in nature. It was frustration that drew his mouth open, that caused Bin to say, an edge to his voice, “This isn’t a _game_.”

“But it is,” the Knight Enchanter answered, obviously unoffended by the heat that had permeated Bin’s words. He lifted his quill from the paper and once more sunk it into the depths of the inkwell. He tapped at the end of it, then drew it out and resumed his writing, his hand noticeably slower in its strokes. “Your Knight Commander plays tyrant, your Viscount plays protector; Maker alone knows what your Chantry does, beyond punishing and rewarding those two so that they might forever be at each other’s throats.”

“But you’re here,” Bin countered. It had to count for something, that the Knight Enchanter was an unknown within the city. Something would happen because he was here—or had Bin been too quick to judge, been too blinded by his own desperate desire to project a savior upon this man?

“I am here,” the Knight Enchanter agreed. He smiled again, as he said it, but his expression no longer held the friendly veneer Bin had attributed to it. “My thanks for your time, serah. You are free to leave; I’m sure Cullen will be more than happy to see you off.” He ended his words with a dip of his head, clearly finished with their conversation.

Bin sat there woodenly for a few moments more, but when it became clear the Knight Enchanter was well and truly done with him, he rose from his seat and headed out the door.

It was as the Knight Enchanter had said: Cullen stood halfway down the hallway, looking out a window and down into the courtyard below. As Bin drew nearer, he asked, “Done?”

“Yes,” Bin answered. He didn’t know what to make of the Knight Enchanter, and perhaps it showed on his face—that he was dissatisfied, uncertain—for Cullen said, “Strange, isn’t he?” as they began to walk together.

It was not the word Bin would use. But then he did not know _what_ word most accurately captured a man who could act so charming, so polite, out in public where he was treated as some great spectacle. He had gently encouraged Bin to draw forth memories that were living nightmares. And then, just as Bin was beginning to—not trust, no, but perhaps like?—just as he was beginning to feel that, toward this man who might become Kirkwall’s hope, the Knight Enchanter had just closed him out. And then basically kicked him out of the room.

The templar seemed to take Bin’s silence as answer enough, for he said after a time, “You are originally from Ferelden, are you not?”

“Yes,” Bin said. “Why?” He did not ask how Cullen knew—most likely it had come out when the templars had dug into his background. It only made sense that the second-in-command had also heard of his flight from his homeland.

“Just wondering, I suppose,” the man said. He ran a hand through is blonde hair, his helm tucked beneath one arm. It was not a sweltering day, but Bin supposed even a bit of direct sunlight heated up a helmet formed from metal. “I came from there, too. A little village in the southwest corner. Only thing of note we had besides the sheep was this big, ugly statue that stood in the center of the village.” Abruptly the man’s lip quirked up, and he added, “Not there anymore, though. Apparently, it was a golem. The Grey Wardens conscripted it.”

Bin could not stop the bark of laughter that leapt free of his throat, asking, “What?”

“I know,” Cullen said, still grinning wryly. “I wish I could have seen it—apparently it was at the Landsmeet, before the battle at Denerim. It stuck around for a bit after the king was crowned then went elsewhere.”

“Have you always been stationed here?” Bin asked. He thought it strange that this man was not currently guarding the Circle in Ferelden—but then again, they had abolished that. Supposedly some of the mages had stayed on, and some templars still stood there in protection of those that had remained. He tried to remember if he had ever seen Cullen before the Blight had ended.

The answer came swiftly enough, though. Cullen blanched, so suddenly it was as if he had been struck, and said after a few tense moments, “No, not always.”

“Well, we’re happy to have you here,” Bin said. They had reached the entrance to the Gallows by then, and he hoped the words he spoke did not ring hollow. He did not truly have an opinion of Cullen, but he was not so callous as to ignore the man’s obvious discomfort. Whatever memories he had dredged up with his simple query were obviously not kind.

Slowly, as if he had forgotten how to speak the words (or perhaps he was simply trying to lock his memories away again) Cullen said, “Thank you. Truly.” He offered Bin another smile, somewhat shakier than his previous expressions. “Take care. If you should remember anything or suspect someone, don’t hesitate to come to us.”

“Good day,” Bin answered. He waved to the Knight Captain, not quite knowing if he should, but thinking there was no real harm in doing so. After a heartbeat the templar waved back, and then Bin was on his way home.

He returned to his house with the sun still set high in the sky—his interview had taken but a short time, his walk back into Lowtown even swifter. He paused before his door, his hand hesitant to touch the handle. There was still time, he could still work. But then there came a burst of laughter from behind the door, higher-pitched than anything his mother or Jinwoo could have produced (and it was too _light_ to be MJ, for he cackled even when affecting a specific type of voice), and Bin pushed through the entrance, curious as to its source.

What he found was not his friends, as he had expected: instead it was Myra and a little girl, the pair of them arranged around his mother who sat at the table, a trio of cups lined up and facedown before her. Myra was resting an arm against the back of his mother’s chair, the young girl so small she could rest her arms quite comfortably on the table’s surface without having to stoop.

They looked as if they had been in the middle of a game—but all three had quieted with the door’s opening, and both Bin’s mother and Myra briefly fixed him with expressions warped by wariness. But then it bled, as recognition snapped into place, and Myra raised her free hand in a jaunty flapping motion that Bin suspected was meant to act as a greeting. His mother was more easily understood, for she said, “Welcome home, Bin,” with a smile that drew soft lines across her face.

He smiled back at her, dipped his head, and said his greetings to Myra and the little girl—who had hidden herself behind his mother and now peeked around curiously, her dark eyes only barely visible beneath the equally dark cap of hair that rested upon her head.

“We were playing a game,” Bin’s mother said as he drew near. And then she turned from him, to carefully regard the child that was using her as a shield, saying, “I thought you wanted to see Bin, Lily?”

Again the little girl showed herself—and this time Bin _knew_ her. It was a faint memory, if only because so much had happened directly afterwards; but now he knew she was the little girl who had curtsied to him, and he had bowed back to her.

He immediately dropped into a bow, before a feeling of foolishness could wash over him. But he did not feel embarrassed for long, for the little girl eased herself halfway from behind his mother, so that she might dip into a return curtsy. Now that he could more easily see her, he thought her some eight or nine or ten years—but it was obvious a life on the streets had robbed her of some of the height she might have achieved as an adult. He had no doubt she would likely always be small.

She was still cute, and he knelt down so that she might not feel so afraid. He knew himself to be a tall man, so wide in the shoulders that he sometimes had difficulty finding shirts that fit comfortably. Compared to this small scrap of a girl, he was probably something like a walking mountain.

“Hello Lily,” he greeted, a smile blooming upon his face. For whatever reason (though his mother had once theorized it was loneliness) he had always found children fascinating. Whereas other mothers had often despaired over their sons never settling down and providing grandchildren, his mother had commented she prayed every day to the Maker that he did not arrive at their home with some lost child in tow. Of course, the one time she had jokingly suggested Bin not be in _too_ quick a hurry to sire children, she had also apologized that they (herself and his father, who was of course dead and gone by then) had never been able to provide him with a sibling.

He did not blame them, of course. It was not as if they had been well-off in Lothering, and an additional mouth would have only further drained their already-strained resources. But he was left with this adoration toward these tiny humans, these people who were not yet fully formed and therefore absolutely fascinated by the world. And, yes, perhaps Lily was a bit older than that, had already seen the crueler side of life—but she was no less cute, and Bin grinned all the wider when she carefully circled the table so that she might regard him carefully without a barrier between them.

“She wanted to see you,” Myra said, suddenly reminding Bin that it was not just he and Lily but also his mother and the Red Jenny. He turned to look at her as she spoke, catching his mother’s own lopsided smile. The young woman was also grinning, though hers was considerably more mischievous.

Lily did not take kindly to this interruption, abruptly coloring red and shouting, “Myra!” in a way that threatened an oncoming tantrum if Bin did not intercept.

“I wanted to see you too,” he said quickly—and when Lily’s eyes wrenched back onto him, he smiled encouragingly, adding, “What were you playing with my mother?”

“Cups,” Lily immediately answered. Bin did not think that was what it was actually called—but wracking his brain, he could not immediately identify a name for the game that involved slipping something beneath a single cup and then mixing it with two more before letting the participant pick which cup held the item. So, yes, _Cups_ it was.

“Are you winning?”

“I am,” Lily proclaimed proudly, and Bin knew he had asked the right question. She tossed a look toward Myra and added, “Myra keeps losing.”

“I do,” Myra agreed placidly. “Your mother is very good at mixing up the cups.”

Bin smiled at the Red Jenny—he had only briefly interacted with her on that night Jinwoo had been taken, but it was obvious her personality was easygoing and energetic. Like MJ, he thought, but without the bite that sometimes lurked just beneath the prince’s words.

He encouraged Lily to return to her game with his mother and settled down at the table himself, glad to be off his feet. Of late all his jobs had required him to constantly be standing or moving, and so some weariness had settled in his joints and ligaments. It was not something that required more urgent care than a day of rest, thankfully.

“Watch this,” Lily told him confidently. She once more crowded near the table—though this time she stood near Bin, not quite touching him, but close enough that something like serenity settled within him.

He did as she commanded, eyes fixated on the three cups as his mother drew forth a copper bit and placed it beneath the middle one. Then she shuffled the cups, weaving them around before at last lifting her hands up and saying, “Lily? Your turn.”

Bin was certain the copper piece was now hidden beneath the left-most cup. Lily, of course, chose the right one.

His mother lifted the cup up, revealing the coin, and said, “Correct.”

“How?” Bin asked. He had been _watching_. Yes, he had blinked once—but that should not have been enough time for him to lose track of the correct cup. He looked toward Myra, and she just smiled and shrugged.

“Your mom isn’t playing favorites. Lily’s just better than us.”

“Yeah,” the little girl chirped. She turned her head to regard Bin and asked, “Are you not good at Cups?”

“I don’t know,” he answered. “I’ll try.”

His mother dragged the cup with the copper bit beneath it back into the center. She lifted the cup high, saying, “Watch it closely, son,” before she once more covered the piece with it.

Again, she mixed the cups; Bin focused on his target, thinking it was something like fighting. You could blink, yes, but only after you had discerned the pattern of the enemy’s movements.  When his mother lifted her hands away, he knew exactly which cup the coin was under.

“This one,” he said. He pointed toward the left cup; yes, he had chosen it before, but this time he knew how his mother wove them.

His confidence died away as his mother lifted the cup and—there was nothing beneath. Just the table, its wood grain almost mocking given the circumstances.  

“It’s the middle one,” Lily chimed in. She threw Bin a despairing look as his mother lifted the center cup up, revealing the copper bit beneath. “You’re not very good at this either.”

“No, it was—it was?” he asked his mother. He was so _certain_ it had been the left one.

“Try again?” she asked, smiling a bit at his obvious distress.

Myra laughed from where she stood. She had been watching his fumbling attempts at comprehension with a smile on her face, and she now interjected, “Better to just let Lily do it, serah. Seems you and I lack the knack of it.”

“I—fine,” Bin said. He would have rather argued more, but he suddenly realized that perhaps it was meant to be this way. Mayhap his mother was purposely playing tricks on Myra and him, some sleight-of-hand. Maker knew the few times they had played with cards (typically borrowed from a man at the tavern in Lothering) she had shown herself to be surprisingly skilled. Of course, later, when he had accused her of cheating, she had been quick to assure him that she would never do so with money on the line. She was not a _true_ cheat.

He watched dourly as she continued to play with first Lily and then Myra (and the Red Jenny was just as bad as him, often picking the cups that he thought contained the coin only for nothing to be revealed), thinking that his mother’s sense of morality made no sense. If she had the skills, why not employ them?

But that was the way of his mother. And he had no true knack for it, had been swindled into doing more chores than he cared to remember. “Too honest,” his mother had told him once upon a time. And maybe he was—but at least others could have a decent conversation with him without accidentally tripping a land mine in the form of some hidden trauma.

And, yes, perhaps he was being too hard on Jinwoo. The dwarf had his secrets, but they had never been the type to come between Bin and him. In comparison, MJ was a steel trap masquerading as an open book. He never talked much about what his life had been like at Starkhaven, much less about what he had experienced as a prince—and had he ever willingly brought up his family?

And then there was the Knight Enchanter. Bin knew, in hindsight, that he had been foolish to so willingly heap his hopes upon this man. He was just a man, after all, for all that he was a mage and therefore capable of bending reality to suit his will. But there was still some lingering sense of betrayal there—or mayhap he was simply sore, because _he_ had dived into the depths of his mind to draw forth the details of that horrible day. And the mage had just _shut him out_ at the end. Like he was something to be used and discarded.

Well, fine. As his mother continued to play Cups with Lily and Myra, Bin resolved to have nothing further to do with the Knight Enchanter. The mage had gotten all he needed from Bin, anyway, and he ran in such affluent circles they would likely never meet again. He would catch the apostate loose in Kirkwall, and then he would return to Ostwick or Orlais or wherever he had originally traveled from. It would take time, yes, but the templars were desperate for blood, and the city guard was bolstered by the nobility’s fear.

Sooner or later someone would catch the murderer. Bin just had to continue living his life until the problem was resolved.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello! this chapter is a bit more lowkey after the mammoth from last time. we have some fun stuff like the boys' first proper interaction, but consider this something of a breather before things ramp up again. it allows for some digestion of everything that's happened. 
> 
> i'd also like to say a heartfelt thank you to everyone who has commented, kudo'd, or just read the story up to this point. i have a lot of fun writing this, but it's equally enjoyable being able to share it with people and have them actually like it. so, legit thank you ;;


	6. Chapter VI

 

 

 

The length of coastline Kirkwall sat on was rocky and jagged. The sea it stood beside was known for its temperamental and swift winds. But approaching from the coast or the water was preferable to the third option: the Sundermount was the tallest mountain in the Vimmark range and any attempts to cross it (especially while ferrying goods) were certain to end in disaster.

It was not an easy trail Bin traveled. He had left in the early morn with Jinwoo and Myungjun, when the fog still lingered over Kirkwall. The city had been subdued, almost suppressed, by its spreading white fingers—and its presence had hampered the start of their journey, for the climb up Sundermount was not a steady inclination but rather a jagged path that darted up before swooping down and then went almost vertical. At one point MJ had slipped on a loose bit of dirt in the road (though it was only tramped down earth, and it was barely even that), and Jinwoo had caught him about the wrist before he could tumble back down the incline they had just ascended.   

Thankfully, the Bone Pit was not all the way up the mountain. It was not even halfway up the mountain. Instead it nestled into a small outcropping of what might one day grow to be a mountain itself but was for now only a hill. So, after they had climbed to the proper height, the path leveled off somewhat, curling between shoots of stubborn pines and dense shrubbery that preferred these more extreme conditions for survival.

It had been Jinwoo who had found the job, though Bin had been the one to accept it, for the dwarf was sometimes too cautious for his own good. A letter had come to Jinwoo’s residence, requesting a meeting and offering work that would pay lucratively if completed to satisfaction. It had come from a merchant by the name of Hubert, who was apparently a staple in the Hightown market. He had hoped that Jinwoo, having been one of the leaders of a now-disbanded mercenary company, might still be able to call upon old contacts for this job.

Bin had been the one to suggest they take it. The man was Orlesian, and he sold exotic wares. Assuming the work offered was not too difficult, it might pay handsomely. And, even knowing Jinwoo could just call upon a clerk who handed out gold sovereigns like they were children’s sweets, the pressure of money was a constant weight upon his mind.

Hubert’s predicament had been simple enough: he had come into possession of a quarry outside Kirkwall, and he wished to make use of it. But his workers refused to step foot on the premise, and any local help he might have hired to make the location more easily accessible would not go near the mines until they had been deemed safe. “Safe from what,” he had said exasperatedly, “I do not know. But I would be a poor employer not to take their concerns into account.”

(Not that he had much choice in the matter, MJ would say later. With everyone declining to approach the place, he had no way of making money off it.)

A quick dig into the Bone Pit’s history immediately made it clear exactly _why_ no one would go, even with the man offering gold. Once upon a time it had been another quarry of the Tevinter Imperium. As with all tasks, the Imperium had seen fit to use slaves, and those that disobeyed were said to have been fed to dragons. After the Imperium’s withdrawal it had been passed from one hand to the next, some worrying its many deaths had thinned the Veil that separated the Fade from reality. Still others feared that dragons still lived near, having learned they might gain an easy meal.  

“But that was centuries ago,” Bin had told Jinwoo when the dwarf balked at the idea of clearing out the mines. MJ had added that most of the dragons had been hunted to extinction in the Steel Age, and while the Dragon Age had been named as such for the single dragon seen during the end of the Blessed Age, it had been near some forty years since then and surely it was dead by now.

Of course, while MJ had been a willing accomplice to Bin when he convinced Jinwoo to take on the job, he was anything but willing now.

The prince primly hopped over a knobby branch that lay across his path, saying, “Who puts a quarry so far away? Didn’t they have to cart the stone back to Kirkwall? It’d have taken them a day just for the trip!”

They had spread out a bit in their walking, though it had been silently agreed upon that Bin would lead while Jinwoo brought up the rear. The dwarf paused, considering the height of the fallen limb MJ had cleared, then hesitantly stepped over it. He wore full armor, his sword sheathed at his side and his shield strapped to his back, so his task was considerably more cumbersome than the archer’s had been. Nevertheless, he said after a moment, “Didn’t you live out in the wilds for weeks?”

“What’s that have to do with anything?”

“Just that a bit of rough going shouldn’t make you squeal like a nug.”

Even with his eyes facing forward, Bin could almost feel the glare MJ was giving Jinwoo. He raised his hand to smother the laugh that bubbled in his throat and half-turned back to the pair, saying, “He does look like one, so it isn’t really that surprising.”

“You little—!”

Recognizing the danger he was in, Bin broke into a sprint, the prince screaming incomprehensibly after him.  The sound of it—like a banshee but also a pig when it is denied its favorite truffle—soon caught up with Bin, and he stumbled to a halt to laugh. He was still laughing when MJ cannonballed into him, not quite hitting him but—wrestling? Insofar as the prince was capable of wrestling—and Bin dropped his sword so that he could dive for MJ’s ribs.

As soon as his fingers hit the delicate skin of MJ’s stomach, the prince suddenly became desperate to escape, saying, “No, no, no!” in between puffs of laughter that blew his cheeks out like a chipmunk’s.

Bin tickled him a few moments more then let him slowly collapse upon the ground, the prince curled up around his stomach as he still giggled helplessly. A feeling of fondness washed over Bin, and he reached down to swipe at MJ’s mussed bangs, combing them back into place even as Jinwoo finally caught up.

“So much for keeping watch for bandits,” the dwarf said wryly. But there was a small smile on his face, and he did not seem particularly bothered by their antics. He stepped nearer and briefly stooped to scoop up Bin’s sword, saying, “Here.”

Bin took it back with a breathless, “Thanks.”

The three stayed there a few moments longer, letting MJ catch his breath and cease his giggling (the man could laugh forever if not properly quieted), and then continued on.

They arrived at the Bone Pit not long after, though their trip had been waylaid by Bin’s occasional wandering off the path. His mother had asked that he might keep an eye out for any herbs on this journey, and several times he had spotted elfroot. Though most of the plants he left alone, he did pause at one and uproot it carefully, dividing it into stems and leaves and roots. The stems and leaves he had stored away, but the roots he had pocketed, for they acted as a natural aspirin and might come in handy should any of them come to harm while investigating the Bone Pit.

Cresting a small hill, Bin was first to catch sight of the great quarry that had given the site its name. The Bone Pit was a many-lengths wide open area, what had once been stone ground gradually cut away until it was a man-made hole in the ground, a small path leading down into its depths. And, though not directly connected to the quarry as far as Bin could see, there was also a cave that led into the depths of the mountain—and this must be the mines proper.

He had expected all of this. But the unknown reared its head in the form of a horse that grazed near the entrance to the mines, its reins knotted and thrown back over its saddle so it would not catch a foot through them. It was not so tall as a destrier, but the coal black legs and starbursts of white dapples that streaked across its iron-grey body were quick to reveal exactly _whose_ horse it was.

Bin was completely certain when Jinwoo approached it, and the horse raised its head to eye him warily. Bin knew something of a horse’s body language, and he had only just begun to say, “Jinwoo, be careful,” when the horse suddenly stamped its foot and lowered its head once more. Its ears pinned back against its skull so it looked almost snake-like as it warned the dwarf away with a steady swaying of its head.

As the dwarf beat a hasty retreat, Bin said, “That’s the Knight Enchanter’s horse.”

“Nasty temper,” MJ commented from beside him. The prince had watched the horse with apprehension from the moment they had approached, and he still stared at it now, expression dubious.

Jinwoo rejoined them, saying, “Any reason he’d be out here?”

The dwarf looked toward Bin as he asked, and Bin could only shrug in answer. “It isn’t like I made friends with him. He didn’t tell me his plans.”

“But he seems so approachable,” MJ said. He still watched the horse, which had once more dropped its head to chomp at the grass, its lips brushing over the tender shoots as it selected which blades might suit its delicate palate.

Bin was almost about to retort that he was not so friendly as he first appeared, when MJ added, clearly joking, “I thought you might have invited him over for dinner. You’re so good at attracting strange characters.”

“Jinwoo was the one who gave them the peach cobbler.”

“I had to thank them!” the dwarf countered. Bin had been there the day he had offered the pastry up to the Red Jennies—more specifically, Rocky, who had arrived at their summons. He had taken the offering hesitantly and had been furthered unsettled by Jinwoo’s apparent gratitude, his eyes darting between the cobbler and Jinwoo's face until he'd finally said "Thanks," and left almost immediately afterward. 

And now they showed up at Bin’s house. Or, at least, Myra did—sometimes with a child in tow, sometimes with Rocky. Bin could only speculate it was because they did not know exactly _where_ Jinwoo lived, but it probably also had something to do with his mother, who seemed perfectly content with a pack of orphaned thieves tramping in and out of her house.

The conversation died away as they considered the entrance to the mines. It was large enough a horse and cart might pull through, but the deeper darkness that lay just beyond its threshold suggested it immediately narrowed.

Bin stepped nearer, keeping a wide berth between himself and the horse, and scrutinized the cave a moment longer before saying, “MJ, you’re on torch duty.”

“All right.”

“Me in front and Jinwoo in the back?” Bin asked, looking toward the dwarf.  He knew that, theoretically, a shield-bearer was best put forward. But this was their first excursion since Jinwoo had been injured, and he did not know the limits of his friend’s strength.

The look the dwarf cast him suggested he too knew why Bin had suggested such an order, but he only sighed and said, “As you please.” He had already begun to remove his shield from his back, working it free of the straps that had held it there on the journey up.  

Their first steps into the mines were hesitant. Bin went first, his greatsword tucked in tight to his side. Behind him followed MJ, holding the torch up high so that it might cast light over Bin’s shoulder. Last of all was Jinwoo, sword not yet unsheathed but shield held ready.

The passageway almost immediately closed in upon them, until there was barely an arm’s span between Bin and the rocky walls he traveled between. The stone walls had been artificially smoothed by those that had previously worked the mines, the dirt and stone underneath made remarkedly level. But Bin still kept an eye on where he put his feet, for underneath the scent of mildew and soil and damp, there lingered a smell he could not yet identify. It was something that tickled his throat, that dried the water in his mouth—but it only came in moments, so swiftly he could not keep track of it.

 They had only ventured some five minutes into the caves when the passage suddenly opened up once more, widening into a cavernous area, light trickling in through cracks in the ceiling. The cavity was much the same as the passage that had preceded it, but small crops of low-light plants were dotted around the area, lending color to what was otherwise a palette dominated by swathes of grey and brown.

There was also a giant spider.

Bin stopped dead when he caught sight of it, instinctively raising his sword. But it was only a heartbeat more that caused him to lower it again, mouth pressed in a firm line as he strode toward it, each step hastened by an urgency that was beginning to grow inside of him.

“It’s dead,” MJ said. The prince had trotted after Bin and now stood with him, peering down at the battered carapace. In life the arachnid could easily have been the size of a large dog. Now, in death, it was somewhat shrunken in upon itself, its legs tucked tight to its body in a death curl.

“The Knight Enchanter?” That was Jinwoo, who was slowest to enter the cavern, his body drawn tight with the same tension Bin felt. Though he joined them at the spider’s corpse, he kept his gaze outward, constantly seeking signs of an ambush in the darkness.

Bin examined the spider again. Cha Eunwoo was a Knight Enchanter, a specially-trained mage of Orlais. He knew mages could throw about rocks, could set a building ablaze, could freeze the very blood in someone’s veins. And Cha Eunwoo had said that others could raise the living, could keep a woman living beyond her natural death point. But he could not picture the man employing the same sort of savagery it had taken to break this beast’s body. Everything about him had invoked a kind of delicacy Bin had seen nowhere else.

“No,” he said at last.

Jinwoo clicked his tongue, then turned to look at Bin. “We should hurry, then. Whatever killed this might be hunting him.”

“Or he’s outside the cave, and we’re going to get eaten for no reason,” MJ said.

The dwarf rolled his eyes. “We were asked to clear out the mines, so we’ll be fighting whatever it is whether it’s trying to eat Bin’s Knight Enchanter or not.”

Bin had been examining the ground, trying to find any sign the Knight Enchanter had passed by. But hard ground with barely any topsoil to it was almost impossible for tracking purposes, and when he heard “Bin’s Knight Enchanter”, he could not help but protest, saying, “He’s not _mine_.”

“You thought he smiled at you,” Jinwoo answered, sounding bored.

MJ cackled, his voice bouncing strangely in the cave. Bin fixed Jinwoo with a frown. Yes, he had thought that—when he had first seen the Knight Enchanter and had not yet held a conversation with the man. _Stupid, really_ , he grumbled to himself.

“Still not mine,” he said at last. His eyes roved the cavern. Excluding the way they had come, there were three possible paths that led deeper into the cave. He chose the one that stood nearest the giant spider and said, “This way.”

The passage he had picked almost immediately closed in upon them, its space so tight that Bin feared he would not be able to swing his sword should they meet with battle. It also sloped downward, and Bin felt something like claustrophobia creep in. He did not typically find confined spaces worrisome, but that caustic, unusual smell had begun to grow stronger and stronger, and the damp closeness of the walls reminded him of some great mouth—and here he was, creeping deeper down its gullet, down into the stomach acid that waited below.

Despite the fact he felt like he was descending into the stomach of some massive beast, Bin still broke into a run when he heard the shrieks.

They were inhuman, almost like a raptor’s call—but a bird’s scream always held a note of song, no matter how great their fury. These yells were edged in rumbles, like the bull alligator Bin had once stumbled upon in the depths of the Korcari Wilds.

Abruptly the passage ended, and Bin stumbled into a cavern that blazed with light. For a moment he reeled back, blinking hard, blinded by this sudden shift. But as MJ and Jinwoo spilled out of the tunnel behind him, he saw the source of the light: a barrier of sorts, translucence tinged gold, erected between the Knight Enchanter and five or six reptilian-like creatures, each the size of a pony.

“Oh,” he heard the Knight Enchanter say—and then the beasts were turning from the barrier they had been battering relentlessly at, heads raised high as they tasted the air.

_Dragons_ , Bin had only a moment to think, and then the first crashed into him like a wave, so swiftly he only barely caught its mouth with his sword. The blade sliced through the delicate lining of its mouth, the only place it was unarmored, and it fell back with a hissing cry.

At the same time, Jinwoo fended off another’s attack with his shield, the dwarf’s shoulders trembling as the dragonling bore down upon him with all of its weight.

A third lunged for MJ—and another barrier sprung up, a wave of energy crystallizing into shape before the beast, so that it thudded against the shield and then sprang away. The prince dropped the torch, immediately reaching for the bow that hung from his back.

Bin saw no more, for a second joined the first that had attacked him; he raised his sword in defense then fell backward in a scramble when the second dragon opened its mouth, spewing forth a short breath of fire.

Again, a barrier sprang forth, half-formed in its haste, curving up and over Bin. No heat penetrated the thin pane of magic that stood between him and the dragons, and he marveled at it even as he swung his sword up and dove through the barrier, sword aimed at the closest beast’s throat. At the same time, something like frost pricked at his skin—and just as he cut through his target’s neck, the other abruptly froze over, magic-infused ice settling over it like a shroud.

Two dead—and the Knight Enchanter stepped through his own barrier, a sweep of his staff casting the barrier outward in an array of shards that solidified and buried themselves deep in the hide of another dragon. It yelped, retreating from the battle, and its companion rushed the Knight Enchanter with a menacing snarl.

Bin raised his sword, ready to catch it when the mage erected another barrier. Instead, he momentarily froze, in awe of the golden sword that materialized in the Knight Enchanter’s free hand. The mage met the dragon’s attack with it, and the blade slid through the dragon’s scales, skin, _body_ as easily as a knife might carve through butter. The dragon did not even have a moment to scream; it could only choke on its own blood as Eunwoo neatly cut through its neck and head in a diagonal slash. It was dead even before it hit the ground.

The injured one still cowered, muzzle wrinkled in a snarl—and then an arrow buried itself in the beast’s eye, and it shrieked, throwing its head back in a half rear. Bin rushed forward, caught the dragon’s throat with his sword’s edge and broke through the skin. Blood gushed forth, steaming in the open air, and the dragon abruptly slumped to its side, just as Jinwoo slew the final one.

The end came so suddenly that for a moment Bin could only stand there, breathing deeply, eyes wandering over the carcasses of the beasts they had just slain. What light there had been was dimmed now, with the loss of that great, blazing barrier. But the Knight Enchanter’s sword itself was almost like a sun in itself, untouched by blood and humming quietly.

Even as Bin watched, the Knight Enchanter turned from the bodies and leaned his staff against the cave wall he had previously been cornered against. He bent down over something—and the light sword he had held abruptly extinguished, plunging the cavern into darkness. Bin heard MJ’s sharp intake of breath, heard Jinwoo adjust his shield—and then light bloomed from the lantern the Knight Enchanter hoisted.

The light it cast was calmer, gentler, than the sharp fingers fire threw. Instead this light was almost ethereal, painted a pale green, and it stretched farther than MJ’s flame torch had. It was almost as if they had been submerged, so strange was the color that tinted the walls, the dragons, the four men.

“What is that?” Jinwoo asked the Knight Enchanter—the first to break the silence, and the only one seemingly unaffected by how peculiar the light was.

“Veilfire,” the mage answered. He once more took up his staff and stepped closer to the three.

The bob of the lantern, the green glowing ball inside—now Bin knew why it so unnerved him. He had heard tales of spirits in the swamps south of Lothering. Of how they looked as lantern light, striding just ahead. A traveler would follow them, especially on nights when the fog hung thick and heavy, and inevitably that traveler would meet his doom in the swamp or emerge days later, speaking of witches and ghouls.

The mage continued, “It needs neither fuel nor air. Just a place to hold it.” He wore a slight smile as he said it, but when Bin caught his eye, the smile slipped. His kept his voice light as he asked, “Serah, why did you come here?”

“We were hired,” Bin told him. He did not mean to sound triumphant, but between the two of them, it was the Knight Enchanter that was out of place here. Even if he had proven more than capable in a battle, it was _Bin_ who had worked as a mercenary and it had been his skills called upon. Here, at least, the Knight Enchanter was the outsider. “The owner of this mine wanted it cleared out. Why are you here?”

“Bin,” came Jinwoo’s voice, so softly that the mage could not have heard. The dwarf had come to stand beside him and now gently nudged into him. _No need to make it personal_.

But Jinwoo had not had the Knight Enchanter look him straight in the eye and say that the women dying in his city, that the Templars and Viscount at odds with each other, that the Qunari always present in the background was but a game at play.

Not that the dwarf should have bothered. Just as the Knight Enchanter had seemed unconcerned with Bin’s flash of temper during their first meeting, so now did he ignore the obvious barb to Bin’s words.  If anything, he looked contemplative, almost sheepish, as he thought over an answer.

At last he raised his head and said, “A note left upon my desk suggested I might find my culprit here. It was wrong,” and he smiled again.

“Looks like someone doesn’t like you.” At some point MJ had wandered over to where the frozen dragon stood. It was completely incased in ice, and the prince seemed fascinated with poking at it, examining the creature from different angles. He popped up his head, peering over the dragon’s back, to add, “Seems they underestimated you, though.”

“Thank you.”

“A templar?” Jinwoo asked. “Meredith doesn’t like mages, but I think she’d use a more direct approach.”

“It seems that way,” the Knight Enchanter agreed. “The First Enchanter has an office of his own, and a few senior enchanters are allowed in occasionally, but it is mostly templars.” His smile turning wry, he added, “And, yes, I think Knight Commander Meredith would much rather see me trip and accidentally fall upon her sword.”

Though it was said in jest, the Knight Enchanter’s words earned only a half-hearted laugh from MJ. The rumors that swirled around Kirkwall’s Circle had always been bad, but Bin had only recently developed an interest in exactly what happened there. It was difficult to laugh about Meredith’s cruelty, when Bin now knew that suicides had skyrocketed beneath her iron reign, that mages were stripped of their selves for the smallest infraction, that they were treated worse than animals awaiting slaughter, for at least a pig might see daylight before it saw the butcher’s blade.

The Knight Enchanter did not comment on their lackluster response. Instead, as if suddenly reminded, he dipped his head, saying, “Apologies. I had forgotten to introduce myself. I am Knight Enchanter Cha Eunwoo. I know Messere Moon Bin, but I am afraid I know not your names, Messeres.” He looked toward first Jinwoo and then MJ as he spoke, the prince having finally grown tired of the frozen dragon and returned to the conversation.

Though the Knight Enchanter was undoubtedly expecting a proper response, Jinwoo only offered an awkward smile and answered with his name, his voice clipped.

“I’m MJ,” the prince said.  

“Charmed,” the Knight Enchanter said, face affixed with that enigmatic smile. “You shall continue to search the mines, yes?”

“That was the plan.”

“Would you like me to accompany you, then?” At Bin’s dubious expression, the Knight Enchanter smiled wider and said, “There will be a mother to these nestlings. She will undoubtedly prove difficult to fight, even if she is only newly matured.”

“Basically, you just want to see a dragon,” MJ translated.

The Knight Enchanter’s smile slipped, and his voice was almost bashful as he answered, “Well, yes. It is not exactly a common occurrence, meeting a dragon.”

Bin looked toward the slain dragons. According to the Knight Enchanter, these had only been children. How much larger would their mother be? Frustration lanced through him. Again, the Knight Enchanter was treating everything as a game—or, at least, not providing a fully-grown dragon the respect it deserved.

He bit down on his tongue as Jinwoo answered, “You’ll be risking your life.”

“I’m aware,” the Knight Enchanter said.

“Then I suppose it’s fine. Bin?”

“Sure,” he answered. He lifted his sword. There was only a single path leading out of the cave. The dragon scent—it could only belong to the mother, this smell that had dogged him since he first entered the mines—was strongest near it. “Be ready,” he said.

This tunnel was short, almost immediately spilling out into what Bin recognized as the floor of the quarry. They were within the Bone Pit proper, having curled down through the mountain to arrive here. Not far away Bin could see the path that led up toward the entrance of the mines. And, much nearer, beneath an overhang made of rock, crouched the mother dragon.

Bin had thought she would be bigger—but she was still quite large, twice his height with wings that could have easily enfolded his house. Compared to the comically oversized heads of her children, her skull was narrow, perched upon a long, serpentine neck. He wondered if she had heard their fight and waited or if she had simply smelled them as they drew nearer and so risen to meet them.

He did not have long to wonder, for she almost immediately hopped forward, surprisingly graceful for such a large creature, and he dodged to the side.

“Spread!” came Eunwoo’s shout, and Bin scrambled to his feet. He circled the dragon as she struck out at Jinwoo with one clawed hand, her talons scraping harshly against the steel of his shield. Finding her foot useless, the dragon reared back onto its hind legs and swept her great wings forward, buffeting at the dwarf with them.

With her attention on Jinwoo, Bin rushed in for her flank, his sword meeting the scaled flesh that lay there. At the same time he heard the thrumming of Eunwoo’s magic sword, the mage hidden by the dragon’s great bulk, and knew that he must be doing similar on the other side. The creature’s response was immediate: she screamed and turned with a swiftness on Eunwoo, swiping at him with both her front paws. Her tail lashed, and Bin only barely managed to leap over it when it struck the dirt beneath his feet.

Over Jinwoo’s head flew two arrows in rapid succession, one bouncing harmlessly off the dragon’s armored shoulder. The second caught in the softer flesh where her throat met her shoulder, and the dragon abruptly whipped its head back around to face down Jinwoo, back arching up like a cat’s.

Bin rushed forward again, but she had learned how near he had to be to strike her, and her back leg kicked out. He twisted and her blow caught him on the side, throwing him back and knocking the wind from him. He struggled to rise, the sounds of further battle battering at his ears.

At last Bin rolled over onto his side in time to see the dragon, an unrelenting stream of fire issuing from her mouth. Jinwoo was blocking it as well as he could with his shield, but even Bin could feel the heat where he lay. It must be unbearable to the dwarf. Behind Jinwoo, backed up against the rock face, MJ continued to pepper the dragon with arrows—but most were reflected by the dragon’s tough hide.

Bin had only caught sight of Eunwoo when the mage raised his staff high. For an instant, Bin felt an almost unbearable pressure, tasted ozone—and then a great bolt of lightning streaked down from above, lancing through the dragon and locking up its limbs as it seized helplessly, its breath abruptly cut off.

“Bin!” the Knight Enchanter shouted.

Forcing what strength remained into his limbs, Bin pushed himself to his feet. He staggered, almost fell, caught himself, and grabbed his blade. He ran at the dragon, using his momentum, throwing all his weight behind his sword hand, to drive his sword through the beast’s exposed chest, angling it to avoid bone. It ran clean through, Eunwoo’s magic arcing over Bin’s skin harmlessly.

Bin hurriedly backed up as the dragon began to collapse, one final spike of conjured ice throwing it onto its side and biting deep into its flesh. The beast kicked in its last moments, head flopping uselessly upon the ground. And then it at last lay still, and Bin felt his strength leave him, collapsing onto his knees.

There was a great pounding ache in his side, and his vision briefly swam as he searched for his friends.

He saw MJ leaning over Jinwoo, the dwarf flat on his back. He was still breathing and seemed unharmed, aside from perhaps some burns to his hands where he had held the shield. MJ seemed fine, his hair slicked down with sweat, his face red with exertion—and the Knight Enchanter looked the best of them, his hair mussed and expression giddy, as if he had just come from a particularly energizing dance.

Thinking Jinwoo had the right idea, Bin allowed himself to fall back onto the ground, staring up at the sky. He would just lie here like this for a while, just until he caught his breath. Let the Knight Enchanter entertain himself with the dragon’s corpse. Maybe he would be kind enough to pull out Bin’s sword while he examined the body.

Bin had only just thought this when the Knight Enchanter’s face appeared over him, the mage peering down at him. “Were you badly injured?”

His hand moved toward Bin’s side, as if he might examine it, and Bin raised a hand in warning. “No,” he answered. “I’m fine.”

“You don’t look it,” the mage told him.

When Eunwoo continued to look at his wound, Bin pulled himself half-up with a groan, feeling his body protest with a particularly deep throb. A look toward his side revealed why Eunwoo seemed so persistent. The dragon’s claws had actually torn through his armor, leaving three deep gouges in his side that now bled freely. Through the holes in his clothes, he could also see his skin was beginning to purple.

“You probably don’t feel it right now because of adrenaline,” Eunwoo said.

“Then why do I feel like I got kicked by a dragon?” Bin asked, laying his head back down upon the ground.

“That’s,” Eunwoo said then paused. He briefly touched Bin’s hand, asking, “Can you feel this?” At Bin’s affirmation, he withdrew his own hand and continued, “It’s probable the damage was so extensive that your body prioritized ignoring the… claw wounds over the injury caused by the kick itself. You’ll feel even worse in a few minutes,” he finished.

Bin sighed and murmured, “Great.”

There was the sound of footfalls, distant at first, and then closer, and he was not surprised when MJ appeared in his peripheral vision. “Did you die?” the prince asked, blunt as always.

“No,” Bin said. He closed his eyes; perhaps he could just dream this entire experience away. “Just resting.”

He heard MJ snort above him and say, “Jinwoo’s doing the same thing,” before he withdrew.

Bin kept his eyes closed a few moments longer but opened them again when Eunwoo continued to hover nearby, now knelt at Bin’s side. “What?” Bin asked.

“Have you not been sleeping well?” the Knight Enchanter asked. “I didn’t realize before, but your eyes are quite swollen.”

“Oh my _god_ ,” Bin groaned. He raised his hands—like moving through a sea of molasses or a dream or someplace where his entire body _ached_ —to cover his face and began to giggle, helpless against the absurdity of this Knight Enchanter. Every sound forced from his body was another beat of pain and before long he was crying, tears streaming down his face. He didn’t even know if it was his wounds or that his nerves had finally snapped.

In the end, he just laughed harder when MJ wandered over, Jinwoo in tow, and said, “Bin’s lost it.”

“I don’t understand,” Eunwoo said. He had sat beside Bin while he cried and laughed, seemingly content to observe Bin’s descent into madness but equally puzzled by why it was happening in the first place.

“Don’t worry, he’ll be fine,” the prince assured the mage.

Jinwoo only huffed and knelt beside Bin, smelling strongly of smoke as he half-lifted Bin to get at the pockets on his side. “The root, right?” he asked Bin as he carefully unwrapped a bit of the herb Bin had picked up earlier.

“Yes,” Bin sighed out. Jinwoo helped him half-rise, just enough so that he would not choke as he swallowed down the healing herb. Still supported by the dwarf, his head now resting comfortably on Jinwoo’s shoulder he said, “We might just have to camp here for the night.” He could probably climb out of the blighted Bone Pit, but the walk down the mountain seemed too much in his current condition.

MJ immediately broke into grumbling as Eunwoo said, pleasantly, “You could ride my horse. I’m sure the walk would do me good.”

“You mean that demon up there?” MJ asked. He nodded toward where the entrance to the mines lay.

“Aciel is not a demon,” Eunwoo scoffed. “I do not even think it is _possible_ for an animal to be possessed by a demon.”

“You apparently haven’t met your horse,” MJ retorted.

“I think that would be best,” Jinwoo cut in. More quietly, he asked, “Do you need help, Bin?”

_Time to get up_ , Bin thought, even as he said, “No, I’m fine.” Slowly, Jinwoo removed his support, and Bin hefted himself into a proper sitting position. He considered the ground doubtfully; normally, rolling to his feet was not a trial to be overcome, but his brief period of recovery had rendered even rising a challenge. He did not allow himself to think beyond that, pushing himself onto his feet and only wobbling for a second. The Knight Enchanter caught him before he could wobble back onto the ground and held his shoulder until he stood properly.

“Thanks,” Bin said.

“Of course,” the Knight Enchanter answered, releasing Bin’s shoulder without prompting. Jinwoo offered Bin his sword, the blade coated in drying heartblood. He would need to clean it thoroughly when he returned home.

The first step was the most difficult for Bin. But once he began to walk, his body fell into the rhythm of it, and it became easier to sink into the depths of his mind, curled up in a hollow where the pain he felt was a distant, dull thing. He wondered if this had been how Jinwoo had felt—then felt worse having thought it at all, for Bin had taken a single kick, and Jinwoo had suffered for hours. The root, taken directly, was fast-acting, and so the sharp ache Eunwoo had warned of had not fully materialized.

Nevertheless, Bin was glad to reach the mines’ entrance once more. He was less pleased to see the Knight Enchanter’s horse, for it regarded their party with a patience wariness, one ear cocked askew.

“Aciel,” the mage said, stepping toward the horse. It kept one dark eye on Bin but raised its head willingly to nudge at the Knight Enchanter’s outstretched hand, pushing its note against his palm. The Knight Enchanter held its head like that, his free hand rising to comb through the horse’s forelock, as he spoke quietly to it. His voice was so soft Bin could barely hear him, and what he did heard made no sense. It was a language of a kind, though, and obviously one the horse understood, for when the Knight Enchanter turned and gestured at Bin to come forward, the horse kept its head bowed.

“His gait is smoothest at a canter,” the mage explained. He helped Bin climb aboard, practically throwing Bin into the saddle. “But his walk isn’t bad. You can just sit up there, and I’ll guide him.” As he spoke, he unknotted the reins, instead holding them lax in his hand. The horse snorted and shifted, one ear swiveling back in Bin’s direction even as the other pitched toward the Knight Enchanter.

“I know how to ride,” Bin said. His riding experiences had been on heavy drafts, horses that pulled plows and were docile and easy-going. But surely a horse was a horse, and he felt somewhat offended that the Knight Enchanter seemed determined to control everything.

“Oh,” the mage said. “Considering your injuries, I thought it best we treat you as a passenger.” He smiled and pointedly looked away from Bin.

“Fine,” Bin answered. Under different circumstances he might have argued further. But the root had made his tongue heavy, and a quick glance in the direction Eunwoo had looked had shown Bin that both MJ and Jinwoo were tired. The dwarf in particular seemed liable to sink into the earth at any moment, and MJ was strangely subdued, more focused on counting and recounting the arrows in his quiver.

The prince still flashed a smile when he caught Bin’s gaze, though it fell from his face after a few moments.

Their travel down the mountain was considerably quieter than their journey up it had been. What conversation there was originated from Eunwoo, and it was he who provided the bulk of their speech. But Bin found himself strangely glad for it—the Knight Enchanter confirmed that the paths they had not taken within the mines had been checked by him. Of those they had neglected to search, one had been the proper part of the mine and too small a squeeze for the dragonlings. The other had led back into their nesting area, and it was there he had found them. They had chased him out (a tactical retreat, in his words), and it was shortly afterward that Bin and the other two had come along.

It was Jinwoo who asked, “Did you see any drakes?”

“No,” the Knight Enchanter answered. With one hand he tested each step forward using his staff; the other guided his horse, who did not seem to require it, but was willing to be led. “From what I saw, I believe that female came from elsewhere, carrying already fertilized eggs.”

“The male won’t follow?” Bin could not help but ask.

“He would be incapable of it. They don’t grow so large as the females and they don’t develop those weight-bearing wings either. A High Dragon—the fully-grown dragons, not just the sexually mature, like the one we fought was—will typically have multiple male consorts. They guard the nest.” Looking thoughtful, the Knight Enchanter continued, “He’s likely dead by now. The only animal she would have fled was a greater dragon, and that conqueror would have killed the old queen’s mate.”

“So, somewhere, there’s a dragon even bigger than the one we fought?” Jinwoo sounded exhausted.

“Most likely,” the Knight Enchanter said. “We won’t know of her existence for some time, though.”

“Should we be worried?”

“Kirkwall shouldn’t, no. Their hunting grounds are massive. Still, imagine seeing a High Dragon.”

Had he been in better condition, Bin might have resurrected their argument. Again, the Knight Enchanter seemed too focused on the wonder of a dragon existing—he had forgotten the people that would suffer for its existence. But the best Bin could do was stare frostily at the back of the Knight Enchanter’s head and say, “I’d rather not.”

“Suit yourself,” the Knight Enchanter said. Like before, he seemed unconcerned with Bin’s disapproval.

Bin thought they might spend the rest of their trip in that uneasy silence, but after a few minutes more, the Knight Enchanter asked, “You three are mercenaries, correct?”

“Something like that,” Jinwoo said.

“I see,” was all the Knight Enchanter said, and Bin was left to wonder at why the man had asked for the remainder of their return trip.

The Knight Enchanter separated from them at the gates, taking Bin’s place astride his horse and looking far more comfortable. “You are certain you do not require a healer?” he asked Bin.

Though he had to lean against MJ and his wound was blazing pain at his senses, Bin was quite firm in his response. “No. Thank you.”

“Very well,” the Knight Enchanter said. “Then farewell. I hope your wounds heal well. See that your client pays you properly for slaying a dragon; those bones shall fetch a high price.” He dipped his head in a small bow and then turned his horse away, his hands light upon the reins.

They watched his departure, and then MJ sighed and said, “Let’s go home, please. I could sleep for a week.”

“Agreed,” Jinwoo said and yawned. “And Bin doesn’t get to choose what jobs we take anymore.”

Bin felt his own mouth split wide in a yawn. “You know,” he said after he had finished, “I’m in complete agreement.”

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this field trip was legit only meant to take up half a chapter but i like to just make everything longer than it needs to be so here we are. also poor eunwoo keeps getting misunderstood, but bin can't peep your mind my dude :') 
> 
> (sanha will eventually be here, i know exactly when he's coming, i just can't give you an exact chapter b/c i keep expanding everything lmao)


	7. Chapter VII

 

 

 

Bin’s wounds healed, leaving behind only scars: white starbursts that dotted the flesh across his rib. He was lucky, his mother said later, that the dragon’s dirty claws had not poisoned his blood. Luckier still, he agreed, that they had not punctured the internal organs that lay just beneath his skin.

And much luckier than Jinwoo, whose hands had been marked with burns from the oppressive dragonfire that had rained down upon him. These too had healed with time, but whereas Bin only ever occasionally scratched at his marks, Jinwoo’s scars had drawn the skin tight and shiny over his palms, limiting their movements. He could still hold a sword and shield, but no longer were his fingers as dexterous as they had once been, his penmanship occasionally erratic when the skin pulled uncomfortably.  

“Still handsome,” Jinwoo had told him, the one time Bin had regretfully remarked upon it. “The scars could have been on my face instead.” For once Myungjun had kept silent, only meeting Bin’s eyes for a flicker of a second before turning away.

“Very handsome,” Myra had agreed from where she sat, and Rocky had nearly snorted out the water he’d been drinking. His desperate swallow had produced a coughing fit, and Myra had reached over and beat at his back without much fuss, as if this was a regular occurrence between the two.  

Payment for their work in the mines had come in the form of solid gold—and an exchange that Bin had taken immediately. Hubert had been greatly distressed to learn his future business had housed dragons. So, he had struck a deal with Bin: 50% of the mines’ profits, divided between Bin and Jinwoo and MJ as they wished. In return they would ensure other beasts did not make their home there. It had been an easily-made agreement—if what the Knight Enchanter had said was true, another dragon taking over the mines was unlikely.

It had been more difficult to work out exactly how they would split the money. Originally, Bin had thought to divide it equally between himself and Jinwoo. But MJ had argued he had done just as much, and at last the dwarf, made irritable with the constant thrum of pain in his palms, had thrown his bandaged-wrapped hands up and told MJ to just take his share. Instead he had taken command of the dragon corpses and made the necessary arrangements to ship their bodies across the sea and into Ferelden.

It was said that the Hero of Ferelden had slain a High Dragon and employed a pair of smiths in forging dragonscale armor and weapons. It was these two who Jinwoo had contacted, and it was these two he sent the harvested materials to. In time, he said, they would produce armor and weapons—and if they ever were to face another dragon, fire-resistant armor would prove a hefty boon.

Not that the trio were suddenly overcome with riches. Hubert had already said it would take some time for profits to become noticeable—and for the first half year, at least, upkeep and wages and a number of other expenses would eat into what wealth the mines did produce. So when a letter from Cha Eunwoo arrived a few weeks after their excursion into the mines, detailing a job with ample pay, Bin reluctantly accepted.

It was not that he _disliked_ the Knight Enchanter. But every time the man smiled there was something that nagged at Bin, like a piece of straw threaded through his shirt that pricked at his back constantly, invisible to the eye but always there. It was not something he could name. Not yet, at least.

The contents of the letter, delivered by a dour-looking elven man who stood stubbornly outside Bin’s house and resisted every attempt to invite him inside, requested Bin and his friends accompany the Knight Enchanter on another trip outside the city. Eunwoo was quick to assure them that this would prove nowhere near as hazardous as the mines had been. It was, he penned, merely a trip to exchange pleasantries with a Dalish clan that had taken up residence not far from Kirkwall and enquire on the whereabouts of its many members. Though his wording was delicate, Bin knew immediately why the Knight Enchanter meant to make contact with the clan.

In the few weeks he had recuperated, strange rumors had sprung up through Lowtown. Though the city elves of Kirkwall were not confined to their alienage, most chose not to step beyond its limits. When they did emerge, it was often during market days. They would set up stalls together and barter with shoppers, always two or three milling around, their large eyes constantly scanning for some sign of a threat. They were a skittish people—not that Bin could blame them. A dwarf was a dwarf, a man was a man (unless he was a mage), but elves were not afforded the same rights as the other races, and even in Lothering he had only ever seen them as servants, heads bowed and voices soft.

Which was what made the sight of a lone elf, the skin of his face carved with tattoos, so immediately noticeable. Only the Dalish wore such marks: some piece of their culture that Bin had but scant knowledge of. And the rumors had all detailed the staff the man carried, how he kept to the shadows as if afraid to be seen. It was not that mages all carried staves, of course, but it was but another piece of evidence that suggested this might be their killer.

If the murderer was Dalish, then Eunwoo must first ascertain whether it was one of the nearby clan’s many members or a man gone rogue.  That he had requested Bin to accompany him was a matter of logistics: a force of their size would not seem overly aggressive and would convey the importance of their visit. Or, at least, that is how Bin saw it; perhaps the Knight Enchanter merely wished for company.

There was but a single wrinkle in the plan.

“I’m not going,” MJ told Bin when he brought it up. Jinwoo had already agreed to it, and the dwarf’s easygoing smile shrunk at the prince’s obstinate rejection.

“What?” Jinwoo asked. Despite his obvious frustration, his voice was level. Bin wished he could keep such steady command over his own emotions.

“I said,” MJ said slowly, “I’m not going.” He leaned back in his seat, mouth drawn in that imperious line that lent credence to his lineage. “Last time there were dragons—this time there are _elves_. Elves can turn into dragons, you know.”

Bin had never heard _that_ before. “Says who?”

“Books.” Bin continued to stare at MJ a heartbeat longer, not quite able to believe what he was hearing, and the prince rolled his eyes and began, “They’re—."

“Stories,” Jinwoo cut in. “For children.”

“ _No_. There’s a kernel of truth in every story. And,” he added, “even if they don’t turn into dragons, the fact remains that they hate humans.”

Bin could at least understand that. He did not know where MJ had read that the elves could take the form of dragons, but the history of the Dalish had always been bloody and violent. That they so vehemently rejected their city-born cousins, called them no better than domesticated dogs, showed just how deeply they despised humans. But he had also heard that they were not unduly hostile, that traders struck bargains with them often. And, certainly, they deserved to be wary of every human that stepped foot near their camping grounds.

“That’s probably why Eunwoo wants to go himself.” The Knight Enchanter’s name, spoken by Jinwoo, drew Bin from his thoughts. He looked toward his companion, seeking further explanation.

“He could send the city guard or a few of the templars. But the templars only know how to escalate matters; they’ll look for hostility and find it. As for the city guards,” and here Jinwoo rolled his eyes, “they’ll probably be spooked by every single sound they hear in the forest on the way there. Assuming they don’t get lost, because I’ve yet to see one of them step beyond the Wounded Coast.”

“Above their paygrade,” Bin quipped.

Perhaps it was a bit mean-spirited, but the guards’ ineptitude was exactly why mercenary groups had taken root in Kirkwall in the first place. That the largest of the bunch had been busted up and disbanded meant nothing in the face of just how often the citizens of Kirkwall sought help beyond the guards.

“They’ve the right idea,” MJ said. “That entire trip was too long. And there were bugs. And it was hot.”

“Oh, then don’t go,” Jinwoo finally said, when it seemed as if the prince had no intention of stopping in his endless list of complaints. “We’ll just find someone else.”

Immediately a name sprung to Bin’s mind. He knew that normally they would not work so willingly for another—but certainly he was owed some amount of loyalty, considering how freely they came and went from his household? Hesitantly, hoping it would not prove a foolish proposal, he said, “The Red Jennies? Myra, probably. Or Rocky.”

“Have they been outside the city?” Jinwoo’s expression was dubious, but his question was carefully phrased. He did not outright call it a stupid idea, and Bin flashed him a small smile.

“I mean,” Bin said, his expression turning wry, “if they haven’t, then they won’t know to refuse.”

Days later found Bin and Jinwoo stood at the same gate they had passed through on their last excursion. Rocky stood with them, though some amount of nervous energy seemed to grip the rogue for he looked beyond the walls and into the forest often. It had been Myra who had suggested he go—though Bin had been present for their discussion, and it had been less a persuasion and more a firsthand example of blackmail.

They were all dressed lightly; even Jinwoo, who so often wore pieces of mail and carried a metal shield, had traded his usual work attire for leather armor and a wooden armguard. His shield hand, the few times Bin looked over, closed upon itself near constantly, a motion that betrayed his unease.

Part of the reason for their lessened protection was the rain that had poured down the night before. It had left the ground soaked and the air humid. Beneath the morning sun, sweat already collected on the back of Bin’s neck, and he knew as the day waxed on the heat would become even more oppressive, the humidity only serving to amplify their discomfort. He was not looking forward to their return trip.  

Bin could only assume the oppressive weather did nothing for Rocky’s agitated behavior, even if the Red Jenny had not spoken a word in complaint. It had only been the promise of gold that had made him relent, alongside Myra’s near badgering. That—and Jinwoo, who had quite earnestly thanked him with a smile that bordered on mabari-like. You couldn’t really refuse Jinwoo, Bin thought.

He had not told the Knight Enchanter that his party would be changed from their last meeting—and so he could not help but smile when Eunwoo approached them confidently, only to stutter in his steps. It was the briefest of hesitations, his eyes roving from Bin and Jinwoo and then onto Rocky, so slight that Bin doubted the other two even noticed. But it was enough to turn his smile genuine, even if it was fueled by a shard of malicious glee, to see this perfect man caught off-guard for once.

“Good morning,” Bin said. He was aware of Jinwoo looking toward him: probably disapproving or suspicious, but it wasn’t as if he knew exactly what Bin was thinking.

“Good morning,” Eunwoo answered. He smiled as he said it, that same pleasant expression he always wore. “No MJ today?”

“No.”

Bin gestured for Rocky to step nearer, aware that the Red Jenny was—not quite openly staring at Eunwoo, but very obvious in his interest. Something like irritation spiked through Bin at Eunwoo’s own returning smile; it seemed to grow a touch fuller, a shade kinder. Doing his best to ignore it, Bin said, “This is Rocky. He doesn’t normally work with us.”

“A pleasure to meet you, serah,” Eunwoo said.

Rocky stared blankly at him for a few moments more and only moved when Jinwoo cleared his throat, a jerky bob of his head that Bin suspected was meant to be a bow. His own greeting was a hurried affair, as if to make up for the time he had wasted on silence.

“How far away is it?” Bin cut in. A tightness had settled across his shoulders, and he found himself eager to set off.

Eunwoo’s gaze shifted from the Red Jenny and onto him. The Knight Enchanter watched him contemplatively, but at last he smiled again and said, “Not so far as the mines, thankfully. But last night’s rain has made the going hazardous.”

“So, no horse,” Jinwoo said.

“No horse.”

Bin said, “That’s fine. I assume you’re ready to go?”

“Certainly,” the Knight Enchanter agreed. A quick nod from Bin sent him to the lead. Bin followed behind him, a half-step slower to keep a suitable distance between them, with Rocky alongside him and Jinwoo once more in the rear. Above them, the sky was remarkably clear of clouds—but there was a feeling of pressure that sat upon Bin’s skin, making him think the rain from before had not truly moved on.

Their journey took them along the western side of the Sundermount, skirting its greater hills and sticking to trails that had been tramped down by wild hart. Though they did not climb so high as they had previously, the going was still rough: the rains from the night before had turned many of the dirt paths to mud, and more than once did Bin have to reach out and catch Eunwoo.

“You’re so clumsy,” he told the Knight Enchanter the third time he had caught him—this time by the hand, though once he had been forced to half-scoop the Knight Enchanter up and into his arms when both Eunwoo’s feet flew out from under him.

He had thought he would never see the Knight Enchanter less than perfect, especially after their run-in with the dragons, so it was gratifying, almost, when the man threw him a look: not quite a scowl, but something like a frown, to have his flaws exposed like this. Their hands separated without comment, and Eunwoo immediately drew away.

“It’s this accursed mud,” Eunwoo told Bin, jabbing his staff quite pointedly into the ground.

Bin raised his hand to his mouth, to hide the smile that tugged at his lips; the Knight Enchanter’s action had been like a reprimand.

“Rocky isn’t having a problem,” Jinwoo piped up from behind them.

The corner of the Knight Enchanter’s mouth twitched, and they both turned to regard the two behind. Rocky was almost spotless, only the bottoms of his boots coated in the muck they had been traveling through. His eyes were rounded as he looked toward Jinwoo, obviously wanting to speak but not quite knowing what to say.

“Is this your first time outside the city?” Jinwoo asked the rogue.  

 “This far, yes,” Rocky answered after a moment, his words carefully measured out. His gaze briefly flickered onto Bin and Eunwoo before he refocused on Jinwoo. He seemed reluctant to continue and a silence stretched beyond his words before he added, “We never had a reason to go beyond the Wounded Coast.”

“You’re doing well,” Bin said. He had an inkling that this conversation had sprung from Jinwoo’s desire to keep their journey peaceful. But then again, he thought, seeing how the dwarf rewarded Rocky with a smile, perhaps it had been nothing more than idle curiosity.

“Thanks,” Rocky answered. He seemed pleased, to have both their approval, and something like a smile solidified on his face—small, the slightest upward curve of his lips—when Eunwoo echoed their sentiments.

“Much better than me,” Eunwoo added, but he seemed unwilling to revisit his recent frustrations and wore only a wry smile as he passed Bin, once more heading up the path they had been traveling upon.

As they delved deeper into the forest, it began to show itself as more wild, more untouched. Soon, all signs of man died away, and they were forced to travel on trails laid by wildlife. It became something like following a river: traveling down one deer-worn path only to backtrack when it ended in brambles, forcing their way through brush that rose to their hips (and a bit higher on Jinwoo) when they spied a route that looked promising. It was slow-going and hard work, and more than once Bin was forced to raise his oversized greatsword and set it to work tearing through creeping curls of greenery that netted like spider’s web. By the time they reached the edge of the forest, all of them were drenched. Any attempts at conversation had died away some time before, and Bin wiped irritably at his neck, bits of leaf litter clinging to his skin.

He had fallen into a sullen silence with Eunwoo after an earlier comment had ignited already agitated tempers. He had not _thought_ of what it might mean for the horse, if they had brought Eunwoo’s Aciel. He had only thought of the great breadth of its chest and how it might force its way through some of the thinner brush and thus forge a path where there lay none. But Eunwoo, understandably, had been quick to argue that it was just as likely his horse would be cut up in the attempt—and this was only if he had not fallen or twisted his leg in the first half of their journey.

And Bin had retorted that it was all the better that they had not brought the horse, for if it was so clumsy as Eunwoo it would surely have done so. He could not remember quite what else he had said, could only remember that the oppressive heat had only stoked the fires alight in his heart and swiftly enflamed them into words he did not mean.

The only part he truly recalled was the ending, when Jinwoo had inserted himself into the conversation and told Bin to take up guard duty in the back. It had been the sharpness of the dwarf’s tone, like ice-cold water thrown upon Bin’s head, that had snuffed the flames of his temper and drained all the fight from his limbs. He had taken up his position as docilely as a lamb and tried to ignore the look Rocky had directed at him.

He was sorry, of course. But he was also greatly tired, and as they trekked across the rocky plateau just beyond the forest, he found himself unwilling to draw Eunwoo’s attention and apologize. It would come later, Bin decided, when he might pull the Knight Enchanter aside without attracting notice.

The Dalish camp was not far beyond the forest, backed up against the mountain with a natural overhang providing shelter from the elements. Vehicles shaped like boats, with arrow-shaped sails and attached rudders, stood near several of the tents. But even their bright red banners, as vibrant as heart’s blood, were nothing compared to the halla kept penned on the edge of camp. They were deer-like—but of a finer mold, with twisting white-gold horns and pelts as pale as fresh-fallen snow. There was something entrancing about them, and Bin only looked beyond them when Eunwoo said, “Do not act aggressively. They will be wary.”

A guard had spotted them, and the elf approached in long, lithe strides that bespoke a life of travel. Each movement was wary but conservative; like a wolf, Bin thought, as Eunwoo led their party closer.

The Dalish was confident. It was a stark contrast to the elves that inhabited Kirkwall; they were quick to look away, fast to fade into shadow. And they did not speak unless so required. But this one, wearing an aggrieved air, the strange tattoos curling across his face a sun-faded brown, came toward Eunwoo without fear. He wore only a dagger at his side, and suddenly Bin thought that there might be others. He looked—but slowly, so as not to draw attention—and spied an archer further up the mountain. There were more, he was sure. Either in the forest behind him or hidden by the rocks that jutted up from the ground.

A glance toward his companions showed Jinwoo and Rocky had also realized their predicament. But Jinwoo stood with an easy stance, one hand resting lightly upon the hilt of his sword. Rocky met Bin’s eyes, offered a short nod, and then turned his attention elsewhere. The only one who seemed not to recognize the danger was Eunwoo: the mage stood there patiently and only when the elf was near enough did he suddenly dip into a bow.

“Greetings,” Eunwoo said. “I’m sorry for disturbing your clan, but I’m afraid I must speak to your Keeper.”

The elf snorted. “And what business have you with our Keeper?”

“It concerns an elf. There has been a string of murders in Kirkwall and—”

“And it is not one of ours,” the elf snapped, cutting him off. “We hold no love for your cities.”

Eunwoo smiled, his voice pleasant as he answered, “Then we have something in common. But the elf is Dalish. Vallaslin are not inconspicuous, and all the elves of the Kirkwall alienage have already been examined. It is someone from outside the city. Are there other clans in the area?”

The elf’s scowl had faltered at the mention of _vallaslin_ —a word Bin did not know. He stood there a heartbeat longer, obviously working through some inner turmoil then sighed, raising one hand high. It must have been a command, for he dropped it just as quickly and said, “Oh, fine. I will take you to our Keeper. But a single wrong move, and you shall find your party shot through.”

He turned on his heel and led them into the camp. It was spread out wide, but the number of tents indicated the clan was small—twenty or thirty individuals at most.

A tension gripped the air, and it felt as if every eye in the camp was on Bin's party. But, when he did look, he found only a handful of adults in plain sight, heads bowed over their work. He saw no children, but he had not thought he would; after all, they were strangers, invaders in the clan’s home. And yet the Dalish could not outright refuse Eunwoo, and he did not think they would truly shoot his group. After all, they were obviously from Kirkwall, and if Eunwoo’s excursion failed to yield results—well, he doubted the Knight Commander would be any kinder to the Dalish than she was to the mages.  

The tent they were led to was not obviously different from any of the ones that surrounded it. But the elf had them stop outside as he stepped within, pointedly pulling the flap closed behind him. They were forced to stand there, the heat heavy on Bin’s skin, until at last the elf returned and ushered them inside.

The interior felt larger than it had seemed outside—and it was obviously a home, rugs of deerkskin covering the ground, hand-carved furniture arranged by a practiced hand. A folding screen blocked off a corner of the tent, marking off what Bin assumed passed for the Keeper’s bedroom. Lit lanterns perched wherever there was room, some stood atop stacked books while others cluttered upon a workbench. There was a sharp scent, something medicinal, Bin thought, but of a potency that far outstripped his mother’s own healing herbs. And there, in the center of the room, hands folded patiently before her, stood the Keeper.

Bin had not known what he expected. There was a rumor that Keepers were mages themselves, and so perhaps he thought she might wear a necklace strung with talons. But they were also their people’s leaders, so a draping of silk would also have been appropriate. Instead, the Keeper dressed much as her people did: simply, in olive tones that layered despite the oppressive heat. What color there was to be found upon her person came in the form of jewelry, red-orange stones that encircled her wrists and draped down her chest. There was also a dappled deerskin stitched into something like a sling that strapped upon her back, though whatever it typically carried was absent. But what marked her as leader, he thought, was the tree that curled upon her brow—a tattoo reminiscent of the gigantic oak that resided in the Kirkwall Alienage. Compared to the sharp, arrow-like lines upon the elf that had guided them, her marks were more carefully drawn, almost delicate. Somehow, he thought, they conveyed a wisdom that was ancient and unknowable.

He missed Eunwoo’s introduction, only returning to the conversation as the Knight Enchanter introduced Bin and the others in turn. At his name, Bin dropped into a bow; it was the best he could do, because he was ignorant of Dalish customs. The Keeper’s face betrayed nothing as she was greeted by each of them in turn, and it was only after Eunwoo had finished speaking that she said, “Forgive Fennas. He is only newly-marked and has not seen as many summers as I.” Her lips quirked and she added, “But even in my many years, it has been some time since last I saw one such as you. Was it your mother or your father?”

She spoke to Eunwoo, the mage’s face kept carefully blank. He answered in a voice that suggested disinterest, “My mother, but the story isn’t important.”

“No,” the Keeper agreed. “You believe you have seen one of ours in your city?” She turned this question toward all of them, and when Jinwoo shifted, Eunwoo stepped back, allowing the dwarf to come forward.

“Messere,” Jinwoo said, dipping his head toward the Keeper once more, “I don’t believe any of us have seen it, but the rumors are very precise. The person is an elf, with facial tattoos. I don’t believe I’ve ever seen a city elf with them and certainly none of ours.”

“Strange company,” the Keeper said, aiming another glance at Eunwoo. If Jinwoo was offended by her words, he said nothing, only watching her with a level stare that Bin envied. He found the Keeper’s behavior distasteful; despite the strangers that had invaded her clan’s camp, she seemed most interested in Eunwoo, to the point of almost ignoring the rest of them.

But it seemed Eunwoo was also unwilling to indulge her obvious interest, for he added, “It is an important matter, Keeper. There is a butcher loose in the city; if the templars have their way they will slaughter your entire clan chasing this man.”

“And you would allow them?” she asked.

“You believe I have power,” Eunwoo said. “But I hold no allegiance toward your clan.”

“I’m sure your mother would be disappointed,” the Keeper said. “But we appreciate the warning; we shall make plans to leave.”

She moved—as if toward the flap, as if to call upon Fennas who still stood guard outside—and Bin stepped in front of her, blocking her path. “No,” he found himself saying, “You know _something_. If it’s one of your clan’s people—”

“And what if it is?” the woman asked. She barely came up to his chest and her body was as slender as a willow branch. He knew he could snap her in half, and she must have known it too, but her eyes showed no fear as she stared up at him, her gaze challenging. “You’ve four people, including yourself. Yes, your friend is a mage, but how many arrows will it take to pierce his barriers? How much poison must we slip into your dwarf’s blood before he succumbs? How many warriors will your friend cut down before he falls? You are in the center of an enemy camp. My people stand ready and waiting outside. _Move_ , young man.”

He hated every word she said. Hated that she was right. But he hated himself most of all for stepping aside, allowing her to walk past him.

The Keeper paused at the tent’s entrance, one hand raised to pull the cloth back. “For Keepers, the people of our clan are as our children. We must guide them through a world that seeks to destroy us at every turn. We prize a spirit that does not break but knows when to bow. Should you choose to spend the night, we shall offer you food and shelter. And perhaps the answer you seek.”

“Thank you,” Rocky said quietly. He had kept silent throughout the entire exchange, and so Bin was suddenly reminded of his presence, turning to look at the rogue in surprise. Rocky wore a thoughtful expression, but when Bin caught his gaze he offered a shy smile, the smallest upward tilt of his lips.

The Keeper laughed and answered, “If you wish to show your gratitude, my clanmates would appreciate what help you might offer. I shall tell them to treat you as guests.”

She left them alone in the tent.

It was Jinwoo who seemed to process her words the fastest, his mouth crooking up in a wry smile as he said, “I do believe we just traded our services for a hot meal and a place to sleep.”

“And _maybe_ an answer,” Eunwoo agreed, his expression considerably more strained than Jinwoo’s.

“Better than getting turned into a pincushion,” Rocky answered, raising one hand to rub at his eye.

“We’re lucky she didn’t take offense to Bin.”

“Me!?” Bin squawked. “It isn’t like Eunwoo was getting anywhere. And what’s this about your mother?” He turned toward Eunwoo, expecting a retort—he knew one must be gathering upon the mage’s lips.  

Instead, Bin found Eunwoo wearing an unfamiliar frown upon his face. He was so used to the mage’s annoying smiles that the sight left him momentarily speechless. But Eunwoo wore the frown for only a moment more before his mouth rose back into a smile, and he said cheerfully, “I’m not quite sure myself.”

Bin wondered if he was the only one who had seen it, for Jinwoo said dryly, “That’s helpful,” before sighing and adding, “Well, it could be worse. Though I doubt you expected this when you agreed to come.” He directed this last statement at Rocky, quickly regaining some sense of his good mood. It always amazed Bin: how easily the dwarf shifted his emotions, drawing forth whatever was most necessary for the moment.

“No,” Rocky agreed. He was rubbing at his eye again. “I also didn’t think it’d be this hot.” He rubbed at it a few more times, then drew his hand away, blinking both his eyes. “Can we go out now? Something in this tent is irritating my eyes.”

“This whole time?” Jinwoo asked. He stepped to the rogue’s side at Rocky’s nod, saying, “Let me see.”

Bin snorted. It had been some time since Jinwoo had babied him, but it was obvious the dwarf hadn’t lost the habit entirely. “Check him outside, mother,” he said. Bin snagged Jinwoo by the back of his tunic as he stepped past the pair and headed toward the entrance, half-dragging the dwarf behind him.

He was glad that Jinwoo went along so docilely and was further gladdened when Rocky trailed after them. It gave Eunwoo no choice but to follow, and for a moment they all huddled just outside the entrance, blinking against the natural glare cast by the sun. Then Jinwoo was turning back toward Rocky, motioning for him to stoop, just enough that Jinwoo might properly peer down into his eyes instead of up at them, and Eunwoo came to stand by Bin’s side, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Not what you expected?” Bin asked.  

“I did not know what to expect,” Eunwoo said. “Each clan is different. Some Dalish clans attack outsiders without exception, while others will establish trade with multiple merchants and towns. Some of the finer ales imported into Kirkwall are Dalish-made.”

“I didn’t know that.”

“Well,” Eunwoo answered with a smile, “I doubt half as many people would drink brands like Fernhead if they knew it was produced by elves. They don’t like to advertise it.”

The Keeper was doing as she had said she would. Bin watched her move between her clan members, they in turn carrying her message on to others. There was no wind to carry her words, but the reactions of her people, some throwing dubious looks in Bin’s direction while others returned to their work, convinced him that it could only be his party she spoke of. What he could hear was Jinwoo, saying, “—still, there’s an eyelash,” but even the dwarf’s voice was dim beneath the sound of his own thoughts.

He was trying to puzzle out the short exchange between the Keeper and Eunwoo. It had something to do with the man’s mother, but Bin almost immediately discarded that specific link; he was never happy when others brought up his own lack of a father, and Eunwoo had made it clear earlier he had no interest in discussing his mother or why she might be mentioned by the Keeper. But there was a direction he might take their conversation, and he did so, saying, “What did you mean?”

Eunwoo had turned to watch Jinwoo continue to fuss over Rocky, his mouth eased into a gentle smile, but he cocked his head at Bin’s question. “Pardon?” he asked.

“When you said you had no allegiance to them—why would you? Why did she think you would?”

“Probably because I came to speak to them,” Eunwoo said.

It was not a satisfactory answer. It was not an answer that Bin wished to accept. But he could remember too clearly his first interaction with Eunwoo and how easily the man had shut down the conversation and shut Bin out. There was something about Eunwoo—some piece of him—that Bin felt was absent. It was missing in every conversation he held, in every smile he flashed. Eunwoo did not lie. But Bin felt he never fully invested himself in his conversations—and in some ways that was worse than a lie, for Bin could say nothing.

He found himself wishing for MJ, because the prince reveled in every piece of information he did not reveal. Perhaps, Bin thought, _he_ might be able to catch Eunwoo.

“Is it still a game?” Bin asked at last. It was the only thing he could say.

And again—that _smile_. If Bin found any relief in its appearance, it was that it carried a touch of sympathy, as if Eunwoo was aware of Bin’s plight but knew not how to help. “Of course,” the mage said. “It can never be anything but, Bin.”

Working alongside the elves proved fruitful. They were not openly talkative but neither were they so hostile as to outright ignore his questions, and so Bin learned more of the Dalish in the few hours he worked among them than he could have in reading. He knew they were a nomadic people, but he had never before seen how they traveled and the sailed wagons, called aravels, turned out to be their main mode of transportation. Halla were strapped before each one and drew them forth much as horses might pull a carriage—but with the added sails and the rudder upon the back, they were able to harness the winds to aid them and so were able to travel much farther in a day than a typical horse-and-wagon might accomplish. Bi suspected there was also some kind of magic woven into the vehicle.

The halla themselves were watched over by a designated Halla Keeper, who admitted to Bin as he helped in the milking that on the open plains the Halla were allowed more freedom in roaming. Here, upon the mountain, there ran the risk of boars, wolves, and bears, and so they must be kept penned. But it was obvious the caretaker was not pleased with his charges’ imprisonment, and Bin rubbed one particularly friendly female’s face as he commiserated with the elf.  

Most of the work he participated in was not strenuous, and the elves were obviously well-acquainted with the dangers of overworking, for they called for breaks often and passed over their waterskins when Bin began to thirst. On his breaks he caught sight of the others: Jinwoo carrying in a boar carcass from the woods, Rocky dressing a line of rabbits, Eunwoo speaking quite seriously to a group of children. But sometimes he lost sight of Eunwoo entirely, and more than once he and Jinwoo came together when a job required bulk. In comparison, Rocky seemed stuck on food prep, though he apparently did not mind: once, Bin passed near enough to see the rogue watching one of the elves with rapt attention as he went through the process of wrapping a variety of ingredients in a wide, flat-faced leaf.

They were finally released from work just as the sun began to sink low and directed toward a nearby river where they might wash up. They were also provided garments to wear, with the promise that they would be returned their original clothing once it had been cleaned. Considering the general height of the elven people, Bin was surprised that they managed to procure clothing that fit well upon him, but he did not think too much of it. It seemed obvious that this clan, at least, were not adverse to humans, and so it made sense that they had clothed and sheltered guests before.

His group gathered together around a small fire pit. Of the bunch, Jinwoo was the most apparent in his fatigue: he yawned as he settled down upon a fallen log, looking smaller than normal in the clothes the elves had provided. Rocky had obviously not yet reached the end of his stamina for when a woman drew near to inform them that meals would be served shortly, he was the first to acknowledge her and watched her disappear back into the encroaching darkness. Eunwoo seemed the freshest from their efforts, and he wore an easy smile as he thanked the woman for informing them.

Bin felt tired, but he was also ravenously hungry, and when the scent of cooked meat drifted near, he was the first of them to head in its direction. Most of the elves had gathered around a huge cooking pot, and Bin joined them. In addition to the soup spooned from the pot, he was also given strips of rabbit meat, its skin charred, and a few cuts of a bread slathered in halla butter. A handful of berries and nuts topped with a dollop of cream served as dessert.   

He ate everything quickly, surprised to find that halla butter, compared to a cow’s, held a note of sweetness that complimented the grainy texture of the bread and brought out the richness of the seared rabbit. The rabbit itself had been prepped with a lemon rub that cut through the heaviness of the bread and lightened the taste of the soup. The berry mix was obviously meant as a palate cleanser, for the cream was not particularly overpowering and served only to compliment each burst of flavor the berries provided when contrasted against the earthy, almost bitter taste of the nuts.

The moon was firmly set in the sky by the time they had all finished off their meals. Most of the elves had retreated within their tents and those that still stood outside had gathered around their own fire pits. In the darkness of night, Bin was able to see each fleck of ash that twisted up into the sky, fluttering like leaves upon the wind. A comfortable silence had fallen over the group, each content to listen to the sounds of nature that echoed far more loudly so far from the city.

There was something almost overwhelming about it, Bin thought. Beneath a blanket of stars, away from the stone buildings of Lowtown, away from the black cliffs of Kirkwall, he was made aware of just how small he was. But he was not fearful of this newfound knowledge; if anything, he felt a sense of peace, a relief he had not felt since that night at Ostagar when the stars had been blotted out by smoke and blood.

It was nice, he thought, to be reminded that he did not know everything and did not need to know everything. His eyes slid onto Eunwoo, the mage’s face half-hidden in the darkness. He needed to apologize; he knew that. With the argument so far behind them, it was difficult to recall exactly what they had argued over. And he knew that it perhaps not the best idea to bring it back up, draw it back into the open. But he had promised himself he would apologize.

Eunwoo shifted, suddenly focusing on something beyond the light of the fire, near to the forest, and half-rose from where he had been seated.

“What?” That was Rocky, whose gaze darted between Eunwoo and the place he stared at. The rogue had almost been nodding off—but he must have sensed _something_ , some change in the air, for he was instantly awake again and on guard.

Bin pushed away his own thoughts and considered the blackness that stretched around them.

“Who’s there?” Eunwoo said suddenly, voice sharp. Then the mage was up and striding swiftly into the darkness, a soft cry of fear emitting from the direction he headed.

Bin hurried to grab up one of the lamps the elves had left them, lighting it quickly and then charging after Eunwoo. It took only a few steps for the lamplight to reveal Eunwoo grasping hold of a tall, skinny shape that was now caterwauling like a cat and doing its best to escape. A few steps further revealed it as an elf—but an elf unlike the ones he had spent his day with. This one topped them all in height, his shoulders nearly so broad as Bin’s. The sheer size of him might have been intimidating had his eyes not been blown wide like a cow’s, his nostrils flaring in distress. The tattoo upon his face flashed golden-brown in the hard light of the lantern, resembling something like a bird perched between his brows, its great wings flung outward.

 _Our elf_ , Bin thought—for the man wore dark clothes, a hood puddled upon his back, and carried a crudely-carved wooden staff.

It was clear Eunwoo thought the same, for his grip was vice-like upon the elf’s arm, and no matter how much the elf struggled he did not budge. But he also wore a look of bitter disappointment. Without turning toward Bin he said, “We’ve found our answer.”

“How do you know?” Rocky asked, coming to stand beside Bin. He wore something like a sneer, and Bin could only imagine it was the elf’s insistent blabbering that had sparked such a reaction. Jinwoo was the only one who had not joined them, and when Bin looked back toward the campfire, he saw that the dwarf had fallen asleep, chin tucked against his chest as he slept sitting up.

Once this was over he would need to usher the dwarf onto one of the bedrolls they had been provided, so that he did not awaken with a crick in his neck.

“Oh, what is that racket?” came an aggrieved voice. From the direction of the Dalish tents came an elf Bin recognized as the First to the Keeper: Halen, Fennas’ identical twin and just as hot-tempered as her brother. He had learned, following a short conversation with the Halla Keeper, that the First was the Keeper’s successor. They were taught how to lead the clan and how to wield magic. In situations where the Keeper was not present, it often fell onto the First to handle problems.

Halen seemed to recognize this particular problem immediately, for she said disgustedly, “Dread Wolf take you—Sanha, _again_?”

“No, no, no,” the elf answered, the whites of his eyes stark in the light of the lamp. He stopped trying to escape Eunwoo as Halen stalked nearer, choosing instead to try and bring the mage between them. “No, Halen, no, no I was—I was hunting!”

“All day?” she said flatly. “Oh, come here, you great mouse!” She flung out her arm, catching him by the hood of his cloak and drawing it tight around his neck like a noose. Eunwoo wordlessly released the elf, and Halen practically dragged him toward the camp where Jinwoo still slept.

“There,” she said once they were within the circle of firelight once more. She had not released her hold on Sanha’s hood, and he stood wretchedly beside her, every piece of him radiating a desire to escape. “He is no butcher, as you can see. Just a fool with no sense to learn his lesson.”

“Halen,” the elf whined.

The First did not even look at him as she tightened her grip on his collar and gave him a good shake. “Quiet,” she said. Then, directing her attention toward Bin’s group, she added, “He is not the killer that stalks your city, but he is likely the source of your rumors. But I doubt your leaders will be content with such an answer.”

“They might be,” Eunwoo answered. “Would you allow me to question him?”

Halen threw Sanha a disgusted look but finally released him, the elf slumping down with an exaggerated sigh. “As you please. Sanha—come to Keeper Mythalen’s tent once they’re finished with you. We’ll see if she is so kind to you now that you’ve put the entire clan in danger.”

They watched the First stride away, the soft whisper of her footfalls swiftly swallowed up by the crackling of the fire. Sanha stared after her for only a moment before he turned his attention to the group of them, rubbing at the back of his neck.

“Hello,” he said with a small giggle. He seemed to have relaxed with Halen gone, though he also stood awkwardly, as if not quite sure how to address them.

Eunwoo wasted no time in pleasantries, asking, “You are the elf that’s been seen about Kirkwall, correct?”

“Did people see me?”

“You fit the description we were given,” Bin said. “And we don’t let mages walk around freely.”

“Then why is he out?” Sanha asked, gesturing toward Eunwoo.

The Knight Enchanter offered the elf a tight frown, and another nervous giggle escaped Sanha. “That doesn’t matter,” he said. “Why would you enter the city in the first place? Have you seen anything? Felt something?”

“People are interesting,” Sanha answered. “They all live clumped together and half of them don’t like each other. And you brought a dwarf!” He moved as if to step nearer Jinwoo, only for Rocky to carefully block off his approach. “I’ve never seen a dwarf before. He’s so small, isn’t he?” He directed this toward Rocky, who stared back at him without answering.

“But have you seen anything?” Eunwoo asked.

“What would I be looking for?” Sanha asked. Then he paused, tilting his head as if he had just remembered something. ”Wait—what was Halen talking about? What butcher?”  

“I’m surprised you heard her over all your squawking,” Rocky said.

Sanha giggled again. “If I throw a fit, Mythalen gets mad at her. But I still listen, even if she thinks I don’t. But the butcher, tell me about the butcher!”

He was purposely childish, Bin thought. Sanha’s behavior reminded him of MJ—but the prince’s actions were all tinged with something sly, something dark. This elf seemed entirely good-natured and perfectly willing to spill every secret he owned. And perhaps a bit spoiled, he thought. Bin could certainly understand Halen’s hair-trigger temper, if this was what she had to contend with every day.

“There is a mage loose in the city,” he said. “This person has kidnapped three women. We found one of them murdered a month or so ago. They killed another woman shortly after; it was a kidnapping gone wrong, I think?” He looked toward Eunwoo for confirmation, and the Knight Enchanter nodded his head, gaze fixed on the elf.

“And so,” Eunwoo said, “I wonder if you have seen anyone. Or felt anything. The butcher uses magic, that much is clear. So, if you have….” He did not complete his statement.  

Sanha stared at Eunwoo for a few seconds before shaking his head. His cheer had drained away beneath Bin’s dour recountance of the butcher’s tale. “No,” he answered, voice quiet, “I wish I did. I did my best to stay away from people all together.”

“Then that’s that,” Eunwoo said. “We’ll return to Kirkwall in the morning, and I’ll make my report to the Knight Commander.” Looking toward Sanha, he said, “Your clan should move on. My word may not be enough to convince the templars to leave your clan alone, and Meredith can hardly tolerate the idea of me moving freely around her city. She would not be pleased to know there are three more apostates outside.”

“All right,” Sanha said. “I’m sorry I couldn’t be more help.” He waved to them, before crouching and saying softly, “Sleep well, little friend,” toward the sleeping Jinwoo. He stood again and headed in the same direction Halen had gone, leaving Bin and his friends alone.

“Well,” Eunwoo said at last. “I suppose we should bed down for the night.” He began to pass out the bedrolls the elves had stacked nearby for them to use, offering two to Bin. As Rocky set to work on ensuring the fire would not escape its pit, Bin moved to Jinwoo’s side. He gently encouraged the dwarf to wake and directed him into one of the bedrolls. Once he was certain Jinwoo was comfortable, he settled down onto his own. By the dim light of the fire, he could see that Rocky had turned away and faced the darkness. Eunwoo had chosen to sleep upon his back, arms crossed behind his head as he stared up at the night sky. Bin watched the mage until he too succumbed to slumber.

He awoke to dawn. It was surprising, to see the first rosy fingers of the approaching day in the sky above him. He did not wake easily from slumber, and the last time he had awoken so early and so easily, it had been the night after Jinwoo’s kidnapping and subsequent saving.

He half-rose from his bedroll, rolling his shoulders to combat the stiffness that threaded through them. In the gloom of pre-day, he could see Jinwoo still fast asleep. Rocky was further away, curled into a tight ball upon his bedding. But Eunwoo’s place was empty.

Immediately Bin cast his gaze around, and only just managed to catch sight of the Knight Enchanter before he disappeared into the undergrowth of the nearby treeline. Gone to piss, he thought. But even as he told himself to lie back down and sleep a few hours more, he found himself pushing up off of the ground, standing up and stretching until his back popped. Yes, Eunwoo had probably gone to relieve himself, but there was the danger of predators still active in the last scraps of darkness, and the man had gone without his staff.

Bin set out after him, following first the memory of where he had disappeared and then the soft sound of his steps. When he eventually caught sight of Eunwoo again, the man was stood near a tree, watching something higher up the mountain with a look of quiet respect. Bin came to stand beside him, but the mage said nothing, only raising his finger to his lips before pointing toward a ridge some distance away.

It took Bin a moment, but eventually the creatures moved again. Stood on a swell of ground, a trio of hart grazed. Bin had seen them south of Lothering but only ever from a great distance, for they were shy, wary creatures that fled at the sight of man. They were of some relation to elk, but were horse-like in shape and size, their backs corded over with muscle. There were tales of ancient elves riding them into battle, and Bin could see how they might be preferable to a horse. After all, a horse was not gifted with such a heavy crown of antlers, each tine ended in a point as thick as a man’s thumb.

It was obvious that they could not smell Bin and Eunwoo from where they stood, for they grazed brazenly. But Bin had only a moment to stare in wonder at their coats, almost lavender-like in the weak light, when Eunwoo gently nudged him and pointed toward another hart, further down the trail.   

It was a creature larger than its brethren, with a great, shaggy coat the color of redwood that darkened to clay red upon its legs. Stripes the same pale cream as its tumbling beard and short tail cut through the deep red, rising up along its flanks and barring its ankles. In the golden light of dawn, it browsed leisurely through the grasses, one great black hoof pawing aside the dryer sprouts. It was, Bin thought, a Red Hart.

Bin and Eunwoo stood there and watched. The harts grazed until the sun began to edge up over the horizon. Then, as silent as ghosts, they passed through the brush and into a deeper part of the forest. The Red Hart’s tail flicked once, twice—and then it was out of sight completely, and Bin remembered how to breathe.

“How beautiful,” he murmured, for lack of anything else to say.  

After a moment, Eunwoo said, “There are few among the Dalish who ever lay eyes upon a Red Hart. They exist mostly as figurines or patterns—a sign of well-wishing, of fortune. How lucky we are, then, to see one in the flesh.”

Bin knew not how to answer that, except to agree that they were lucky. But perhaps it was the correct thing to say, for Eunwoo made no further comment, and the quiet between them seemed amicable. Almost friendly, Bin thought.

“And I’m sorry,” he said. At Eunwoo’s questioning noise, he elaborated, “It’s late, but I’m sorry for what I said yesterday. For saying you should risk your horse and—and everything else afterward.” He did not look at Eunwoo until after he had finished; the mage wore a look of open surprise, lips parted in clear befuddlement.

The Knight Enchanter only stared at him dumbly for a half-second before saying, slowly, as if uncertain on how to convey his thoughts, “No, no—it’s fine. I didn’t think,” and he paused, raising his hand to his mouth in a gesture of contemplation. “I had forgotten it; you did not need to apologize.”

“Well, I did,” Bin answered. He scratched at his neck, not knowing what else he could say.

“Then thank you,” Eunwoo said. “And I apologize as well.”

“Glad that’s cleared up,” Bin said. The scratch of his nails into the delicate skin of his neck did nothing to chase away the weight that had settled in his throat. It grew heavier, the longer Eunwoo stared at him, his gaze the same liquid black that had made up the harts’ eyes. At last, Bin could stand it no longer and turned away, toward the Dalish camp, saying, “Well, let’s head back.”

It felt like he was running from something—but what, he did not know.

By the time they returned, the clan had awoken. A few hunters passed them, each offering a small wave or a short nod. The fire pit Bin’s group had clustered around the night before had died down to ash. Rocky was crouched beside it, poking at what remained, presumably trying to dig up any hidden embers. But the fire was well and truly dead, and he tossed the stick aside as Bin and Eunwoo approached. Jinwoo and Sanha stood nearby, the elf enthusiastically saying something to the dwarf, who watched him with a wearied patience. The Keeper and First were there as well; the older woman’s countenance was tranquil, a sharp contrast to the scowl her apprentice wore.

“Bin, Eunwoo,” Jinwoo greeted as they approached, his mouth tugging into a wide grin. Bin knew it was trouble, and a flush flared in his face when the dwarf said, far too innocently, “I was wondering where you two went.”

Eunwoo smiled back, either oblivious to the dwarf’s insinuation or pointedly ignoring it. “There’s a herd of hart nearby; we were lucky enough to watch them for a while.”

“What a privilege,” the Keeper agreed. “Will you be leaving soon?”

“I think so,” Eunwoo said, with a glance toward first Bin and then Jinwoo. “Now that we’ve found Sanha, there’s no reason to stay longer.”

“I’m sorry,” Sanha said.

“We must make preparations to leave as well. But might you take breakfast with us before you set off? The going is better today, but it is still a long walk back.” Her smile turning wry, the Keeper aimed a look in Sanha’s direction, adding, “I’m sure Sanha can attest to its length.”

“That’d be nice,” Jinwoo said. The others agreed readily enough, and the Keeper took her leave, her clan members trailing after her.

Left to themselves, Bin waited a moment longer before turning to Jinwoo. A thought had just occurred to him: “I wonder if MJ decided you’re dead and the house is his.”

The dwarf snorted. “Probably. Not that he could do anything with it; Eldrek wouldn’t let any strange transactions go through.”

“Eldrek?” Eunwoo asked.

“His manservant,” Bin answered, earning a grimace from Jinwoo.

“Don’t call him that,” the dwarf protested. “He works for my family, not me.”

Rocky joined them, asking, “So you aren’t rich?” The dwarf looked almost pained at the direction their conversation had taken.

“No,” he said. “I mean—not me, specifically. There are… stipulations.”

“Oh,” Rocky said. “Should I tell Red to stop stealing from you?”

Briefly, Bin became aware of the ridiculousness of this conversation. It was an observation borne from the expression Eunwoo wore: something that was not quite a smile, as if he wasn’t sure whether he should take the exchange between Jinwoo and Rocky seriously or not.

Jinwoo shook his head. “No, it’s fine,” he said. “I just say some street urchin stole from me, and my brother tells Eldrek off for letting me walk around with money. Buy him a new cloak, though; the one he’s wearing is becoming a bit thin. It’ll be chilly when winter sets back in.”

“I’m not sure if I should ask or not,” Eunwoo said. He still wore that not-quite smile, but it was obvious he had given up attempting to understand.

“Don’t,” Bin told him. He doubted the Knight Enchanter would snitch to the city guard about Rocky’s underground thieves’ ring comprised entirely of children and young adults, but it was better if he was kept in the dark. “Then you won’t have to lie.” Not that he could lie, Bin reflected. Just redirect or avoid the question entirely.

“Fair enough,” Eunwoo said. “I’ve no talent for it.” He cast Bin a small smile, and Bin looked away, feeling something skitter in his stomach.

Compared to the food from the night before, their breakfast was of a smaller quantity, explained away by the long journey they had ahead of them. It would not do for any of them to weighted down with heavy foodstuffs. Their clothes were returned to them during the meal, and each changed back into their original gear. There was the faintest scent of lingering soap, so weak Bin doubted the others picked up on it, and he found himself wondering if the Dalish produced their own or traded for it.

Afterwards, as Fennas was escorting them out of the camp, they were stopped by a great yelling. Bin had only just recognized the owner when Fennas confirmed it aloud, muttering, “Sanha,” and a string of words that sounded like an insult—though the exact translation was lost on Bin.

The elf hurried toward them, looking as awkward and gangly as a newborn fawn, all long legs and inelegant strides. “Wait, wait! Wait, Fennas!” he called again, and the named elf snorted, cocking his hip out and tapping out a nervous beat upon the ground with his foot.

“What, you lout?” Fennas asked when Sanha drew near. He reached up, as if to pinch Sanha’s ear, but the young man ducked from his fingers, instead spinning to face Eunwoo.

“I’m so glad I caught up with you,” he said, obviously breathless. He drew in a few deep gulps of air, and continued, “I remembered something!”

“Yes?” Eunwoo asked. He had stepped nearer to Sanha, his mouth a flat line and his eyes as steady as stone. Compared to Sanha’s ruffled state, there was not a single hair out of place upon him.

“Once when I was hiding in—in that city below the city?” He paused, looking between their faces for confirmation.

“Darktown?” Jinwoo suggested, and the elf nodded his head eagerly.

“Yes, Darktown! When I hid there, there was this little alcove I used and there was a paper in it. Maybe… maybe it isn’t related?” He suddenly seemed to doubt himself, worrying at his lower lip with his top teeth, eyes dropping down onto the floor.

“But it might be,” Eunwoo said. “Please tell me?”

“The note said they were leaving books at the usual hiding spot. And that the person it was addressed to had done something impossible. It was signed by someone called O. The only reason I thought it odd was because of the remnants of magic left on it. Like it’d been stained through.”

“Thank you, Sanha,” Eunwoo said quietly. He was smiling, but it was not the same smile he typically wore. There was something hungry in it, and Bin was reminded of Eunwoo’s purpose: a mage to hunt a mage. And now, like a scenthound stumbling upon a trail, he finally had the scent. “You’ve no idea how helpful that is.”

The elf answered weakly, “I’m glad I could help.” He smiled somewhat sadly and added, “I hope you find that person. Kirkwall was so much fun to look around; I wish we could stay longer.” He looked toward Fennas as he said this last piece, but the other elf only offered him an unsympathetic stare.

Aware he was alone in his desire, Sanha returned his eyes back to Bin’s group and dipped into a bow. “Farewell,” he told them. “Travel safely.” And then, as if reminded of it, he added, “Goodbye, Da’falon,” to Jinwoo.

“Best of the vein, you little rock licker,” Jinwoo retorted, causing Sanha to giggle.

They left with both Bin and Rocky confused by the parting that had taken place between the two. It was ultimately Eunwoo who filled them in, saying that “Da’falon”, roughly translated, was a nickname that meant “little friend”.

And “rock licker”, Jinwoo informed them, was an old slang for brontos. “He’s as large as one,” the dwarf told Bin, even as Rocky dissolved into laughter at their side. “He should be glad I didn’t compare him to a nug.”

“Of course not,” Bin replied, his mouth growing into a grin. “That’s reserved for our nug prince.”

 _That_ earned a honking laugh from Eunwoo, the mage instantly blushing when all their heads whipped around in his direction. “What?” he asked, “It’s—it’s funny.”

“It is,” Bin agreed, smiling back at him. He was glad to see Eunwoo’s intensity broken, but he was even happier to see a smile stripped of lies and false feelings. And then it clicked into a place, with a suddenness that threatened to knock the wind from Bin’s breast. That was what he hated about the Knight Enchanter’s smile: it always looked so lonely.

But, in this instant, he looked truly happy as he smiled bashfully back.

Bin could only hope that he would continue to smile like that.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> well, this took a bit! no promises on when the next chapter comes out either, as i've got shadowbringers to play thru, but it probably won't be as long as this chapter took :')
> 
> With sanha finally finally _finally_ appearing I wanna say we’re about… 1/3rd thru the story? That’s exciting lmao
> 
> (btw the red hart binu saw is not why the story is named red hart)
> 
> And for a bit of trivia: while both Sanha and Halen earned their vallaslin on time, Fennas was injured pretty terribly in an accident and received his much later. This accident may have involved human hunters and may explain his aggression toward outsiders.


End file.
